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I 









JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 


BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


GREENMANTLE 

PRESTER JOHN 

MR. STANDFAST 

A LOST LADY OF OLD YEARS 

GREY WEATHER 

SCHOLAR GIPSIES 

MUSA PISCATRIX 

ETC. 




John Burnet of Barns 

A Romance 


By 

JOHN BUCHAN 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 







Reprinted . . * 1924 

gift 

PUBLISHER 

■> 2 *ig 


Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltcl. t Frome and London 


TO THE MEMORY OF 


MY SISTER 

VIOLET KATHARINE STUART 

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vvv Be 6av<i)V Xa^ireL^'EaTrepo^ iv (f>0Lpuevoi^. 































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Contents 

BOOK I—TWEEDDALE 

CHAPTER PAGE 

L THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE 

WOOD OF DAWYCK 13 

II. THE HOUSE OF BARNS .... 20 

III. THE SPATE IN TWEED .... 27 

IV. I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW . . 36 

V. COUSINLY AFFECTION .... 43 

VI. HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A 

GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED . . *54 

VII. THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A 

STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS . 62 

VIII. I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS . . . 70 

IX. I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A 

COMPANION. 75 

BOOK II—THE LOW COUNTRIES 

I. OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES . 83 

II. I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART . . 93 

III. THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY . . 102 


7 




8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

IV. 

OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD 

• 

IO9 

V. 

THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH . 

• 

114 

VI. 

THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH . 

• 

120 

VII. 

I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS . 

0 

127 

VIII. 

THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW 

m 

133 

IX. 

AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING 

• 

139 


BOOK III—THE HILLMEN 



I. 

THE PIER O’ LEITH . 

• 

143 

II. 

HOW I RIDE TO THE SOUTH 

• 

149 

III. 

THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK . 

• 

158 

IV. 

HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END . 

• 

163 

V. 

I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS 

168 

VI. 

THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER . 

• 

174 

VII. 

HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY’S SERVANTS 

MET 



WITH THEIR DESERTS 

. 

l8l 

VIII. 

OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF 



CLYDE . 

. 

189 

IX. 

I PART FROM MARJORY 

* 

194 

X. 

OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND 

THE 



ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH 

. 

200 

XI. 

HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL- 



WHEEL . 

• 

207 

XII. 

I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING . 

.• 

214 

Kill. 

I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 

• 

221 

KIV. 

I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS . 

• 

228 

XV. 

THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN'S LAND 

• 

233 

XVI. 

HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR 

240 

XVII. 

OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR 

€ 

246 

XVIII. 

SMITWOOD. 

• 

252 


CONTENTS 


9 


BOOK IV—THE WESTLANDS 

CHAPTER 

I. I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS 

O’ CLYDE. 

II. AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND 

III. THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES 

IV. UP HILL AND DOWN DALE .... 

V. EAGLESHAM. 

VI. I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET . 

VII. OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE . 

VIII. HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FOR¬ 
TUNE ELSEWHERE. 

IX. THE END OF ALL THINGS . 


PAGE 

26l 

268 

274 

279 

286 

294 

302 

308 

313 











I 






























































JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 









BOOK I—TWEEDDALE 


CHAPTER I 

THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF 
DAWYCK 

I have taken in hand to write this, the history of my life, 
not without much misgiving of heart; for my memory at 
the best is a bad one, and of many things I have no clear 
remembrance. And the making of tales is an art unknown 
to me, so he who may read must not look for any great 
skill in the setting down. Yet I am emboldened to the 
work, for my life has been lived in stirring times and amid 
many strange scenes which may not wholly lack interest 
for those who live in quieter days. And above all, I am 
desirous that they of my family should read of my life and 
learn the qualities both good and bad which run in the race, 
and so the better be able to resist the evil and do the good. 

My course, by the will of God, has had something of a 
method about it, which makes the telling the more easy. 
For, as I look back upon it from the vantage ground of 
time, all seems spread out plain and clear in an ordered 
path. And I would but seek to trace again some portion 
of the way with the light of a dim memory. 

I will begin my tale with a certain June morning in the 
year 1678, when I, scarcely turned twelve years, set out 
from the house of Bams to the fishing in Tweed. I had 
escaped the watchful care of my tutor, Master Robert 
Porter, the curate of Lyne, who vexed my soul thrice a 

13 


14 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

week with Caesar and Cicero. I had no ill-will to the Latin, 
for I relished the battles in Caesar well enough, and had some 
liking for poetry ; but when I made a slip in grammar he 
would bring his great hand over my ears in a way which 
would make them tingle for hours. And all this, mind you, 
with the sun coming in at the window and whaups whistling 
over the fields and the great fish plashing in the river. On 
this mom I had escaped by hiding in the cheese-closet; then 
I had fetched my rod from the stable-loft, and borrowed 
tackle from Davie Lithgow, the stableman ; and now I was 
creeping through the hazel bushes, casting, every now and 
then, a glance back at the house, where the huge figure of 
my teacher was looking for me disconsolately in every 
corner. 

The year had been dry and sultry; and this day was 
warmer than any I remembered. The grass in the meadow 
was browned and crackling ; all the foxgloves hung their 
bells with weariness ; and the waters were shrunken in 
their beds. The mill-lade, which drives Manor Mill, had 
not a drop in it, and the small trout were gasping in the 
shallow pool, which in our usual weather was five feet deep. 
The cattle were stertlin*, as we called it in the countryside ; 
that is, the sun was burning their backs, and, rushing with 
tails erect, they sought coolness from end to end of the 
field. Tweed was very low and clear. Small hope, I 
thought, for my fishing ; I might as well have stayed with 
Master Porter and been thrashed, for I will have to stay out 
all day and go supperless at night. 

I took my way up the river past the green slopes of 
Haswellsykes to the wood of Dawyck, for I knew well that 
there, if anywhere, the fish would take in the shady, black 
pools. The place was four weary miles off, and the day was 
growing*(hotter with each passing hour ; so I stripped my 
coat and hid it in a hole among whins and stones. When I 
come home again, I said, I will recover it. Another half 
mile, and I had off my shoes and stockings and concealed 
them in a like place ; so soon I plodded along with no other 
clothes on my body than shirt and ragged breeches. 


THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME 15 

In time I came to the great forest which stretches up 
Tweed nigh Drummelzier, the greatest wood in our parts, 
unless it be Glentress, on the east side of Peebles. The 
trees were hazels and birches in the main, with a few rowans, 
and on the slopes of the hill a congregation of desolate 
pines. Nearer the house of Dawyck were beeches and oaks 
and the deeper shade, and it was thither I went. The top 
of my rod struck against the boughs, and I had some labour 
in steering a safe course between the Scylla of the trees 
and the Charybdis of the long brackens ; for the rod was in 
two parts spliced together, and as I had little skill in splic¬ 
ing, Davie had done the thing for me before I started. 
Twice I roused a cock of the woods, which went screaming 
through the shadow. Herons from the great heronry at 
the other end were standing in nigh every pool, for the 
hot weather was a godsend to them, and the trout fared ill 
when the long thief-like bills flashed through the clear 
water. Now and then a shy deer leaped from the ground 
and sped up the hill. The desire of the chase was hot upon 
me when, after an hour’s tough scramble, I came to the spot 
where I hoped for fish. 

A stretch of green turf, shaded on all sides by high beeches, 
sloped down to the stream-side. The sun made a shining 
pathway down the middle, but the edges were in blackest 
shadow. At the foot a lone gnarled alder hung over the 
water, sending its long arms far over the river nigh to the 
farther side. Here Tweed was still and sunless, showing a 
level of placid black water, flecked in places with stray 
shafts of light. I prepared my tackle on the grass, making 
a casting-line of fine horse-hair which I had plucked from 
the tail of our own grey gelding. I had no such fine hooks 
as folk nowadays bring from Edinburgh, sharpened and 
barbed ready to their hand ; but rough, home-made ones, 
which Tam Todd, the land-grieve, had fashioned out of old 
needles. My line was of thin, stout whipcord, to which I 
had made the casting firm with a knot of my own invention. 
I had out my bag of worms, and, choosing a fine red one. 


16 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

made it fast on the hook. Then I crept gently to the alder 
and climbed on the branch which hung far out over the 
stream. Here I sat like an owl in the shade, and dropped 
my line in the pool below me, where it caught a glint of the 
sun and looked like a shining cord let down, like Jacob’s 
ladder, from heaven to the darkness of earth. 

I had not sat many minutes before my rod was wrenched 
violently downwards, then athwart the stream, nearly 
swinging me from my perch. I have got a monstrous 
trout, I thought, and with a fluttering heart stood up on the 
branch to be more ready for the struggle. He ran up the 
water and down ; then far below the tree roots, whence I 
had much difficulty in forcing him ; then he thought to 
break my line by rapid jerks, but he did not know the 
strength of my horse-hair. By and by he grew wearied, and 
I landed him comfortably on a spit of land—a great red- 
spotted fellow with a black back. I made sure that he was 
two pounds weight if he was an ounce. 

I hid him in a cool bed of leaves and rushes on the bank, 
and crawled back to my seat on the tree. I baited my hook 
as before, and dropped it in ; and then leaned back lazily 
on the branches behind to meditate on the pleasantness of 
fishing and the hatefulness of Master Porter’s teaching. In 
my shadowed place all was cool and fresh as a May morning, 
but beyond, in the gleam of the sun, I could see birds hop¬ 
ping sleepily on the trees, and the shrivelled dun look of the 
grass. A faint humming of bees reached me, and the flash 
of a white butterfly shot, now and then, like a star from the 
sunlight to the darkness, and back again to the sunlight. It 
was a lovely summer’s day, though too warm for our sober 
country, and as I sat I thought of the lands I had read of 
and heard of, where it was always fiercely hot, and great 
fruits were to be had for the pulling. I thought of the 
oranges and olives and what not, and great silver and golden 
fishes with sparkling scales ; and as I thought of them I 
began to loathe hazel-nuts and rowans and whortleberries 
and the homely trout, which are all that is to be had in this 
land of ours. Then I thought of Bams and my kinsfolk. 


THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME 17 

and all the tales of my forbears, and I loved again the old 
silent valley of Tweed—for a gallant tale is worth many 
fruits and fishes. Then as the day brightened my dreams 
grew accordingly. I came of a great old house ; I, too, 
would ride to the wars, to the low countries, to Sweden, 
and I would do great deeds like the men in Virgil. And then 
I wished I had lived in Roman times. Ah, those were the 
days, when all the good things of life fell to brave men, 
and there was no other trade to be compared to war. Then 
I reflected that they had no fishing, for I had come on no¬ 
thing as yet in my studies about fish and catching of them. 
And so, like the boy I was, I dreamed on, and my thoughts 
chased each other in a dance in my brain, and I fell fast 
asleep. 

I wakened with a desperate shudder, and found myself 
floundering in seven feet of water. My eyes were still heavy 
with sleep, and I swallowed great gulps of the river as I 
sank. In a second I came to the surface and with a few 
strokes I was at the side, for I had early learned to swim. 
Stupid and angry, I scrambled up the bank to the green 
glade. Here a first surprise befell me. It was late after¬ 
noon ; the sun had travelled three-fourths of the sky ; it 
would be near five o’clock. What a great fool I had been 
to fall asleep and lose a day’s fishing ! I found my rod 
moored to the side with the line and half of the horse-hair ; 
some huge fish had taken the hook. Then I looked around 
me to the water and the trees and the green sward, and 
surprise the second befell me ; for there, not twelve paces 
from me, stood a little girl, watching me with every appear¬ 
ance of terror. 

She was about two years younger than myself, I fancied. 
Her dress was some rich white stuff which looked eerie in 
the shade of the beeches, and her long hair fell over her 
shoulders in plentiful curls. She had wide, frightened blue 
eyes and a delicately-featured face, and as for the rest I 
know not how to describe her, so I will not try. I, with no 
more manners than a dog, stood staring at her, wholly 
forgetful of the appearance I must present, without shoes 


18 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and stockings, coat or waistcoat, and dripping with Tweed 
water. She spoke first, in a soft southern tone, which I, 
accustomed only to the broad Scots of Jean Morran, who 
had been my nurse, fell in love with at once. Her whole 
face was filled with the extremest terror. 

“ Oh, sir, be you the water-kelpie ? ” she asked. 

I could have laughed at her fright, though I must have 
been like enough to some evil spirit; but I answered her with 
my best gravity. 

“ No, I am no kelpie, but I had gone to sleep and fell 
into the stream. My coat and shoes are in a hole two 
miles down, and my name is John Burnet—of Bams." 
All this I said in one breath, being anxious to right myself 
in her eyes; also with some pride in the last words. 

It was pretty to see how recognition chased the fear from 
her face. “ I know you,” she said. “ I have heard of you. 
But what do you in the dragon's hole, sir ? This is my 
place. The dragon will get you without a doubt.” 

At this I took off my bonnet and made my best bow. 
“ And who are you, pray, and what story is this of dragons ? 
I have been here scores of times, and never have I seen or 
heard of them.” This with the mock importance of a boy. 

“ Oh, I am Marjory,” she said, “ Marjory Veitch, and I 
live at the great house in the wood, and all this place is my 
father’s and mine. And this is my dragon’s den ” ; and 
straightway she wandered into a long tale of Fair Margot 
and the Seven Maidens, how Margot wed the Dragon and he 
turned forthwith into a prince, and I know not what else. 
" But no harm can come to me, for look, I have the charm,” 
and she showed me a black stone in a silver locket. “ My 
nurse Alison gave it me. She had it from a great fairy who 
came with it to my cradle when I was born.” 

“ Who told you all this ? ” I asked in wonder, for this 
girl seemed to carry all the wisdom of the ages in her head. 

" Alison and my father, and my brother Michael and old 

Adam Noble, and a great many more-” Then she broke 

off. “ My mother is gone. The fairies came for her.” 

Then I remembered the story of the young English 



THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME 19 

mistress of Dawyck, who had died before she had been two 
years in our country. And this child, with her fairy learn¬ 
ing, was her daughter. 

Now I know not what took me, for I had ever been shy 
of folk, and, above all, of womankind. But here I found my 
tongue, and talked to my new companion in a way which I 
could not sufficiently admire. There in the bright sun¬ 
setting I launched into the most miraculous account of my 
adventures of that day, in which dragons and witches were 
simply the commonest portents. Then I sat down and told 
her all the stories I had read out of Virgil and Caesar, and all 
that I had heard of the wars in England and abroad, and 
the tales of the countryside which the packmen had told me. 
Also I must tell the romances of the nettie-wives who come 
to our countryside from the north—the old sad tale of 
Morag of the Misty Days and Usnach's sons and the wiles 
of Angus. And she listened, and thanked me ever so 
prettily when I had done. Then she would enlighten my 
ignorance ; so I heard of the Red Etin of Ireland, and the 
Wolf of Brakelin, and the Seven Bold Brothers. Then I 
showed her nests, and gave her small blue eggs to take 
home, and pulled great foxgloves for her, and made coronets 
of fern. We played at hide-and-go-seek among the beeches, 
and ran races, and fought visionary dragons. Then the sun 
went down over the trees, and she declared it was time to 
be going home. So I got my solitary fish from its bed of 
rushes and made her a present of it. She was pleased 
beyond measure, though she cried out at my hardness in 
taking its life. 

So it came to pass that Mistress Marjory Veitch of Dawyck 
went home hugging a great two-pound trout, and I went off 
to Bams, heedless of Master Porter and his heavy hand ; 
and, arriving late, escaped a thrashing, and made a good 
meal of the remnants of supper. 


20 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

CHAPTER II 

THE HOUSE OF BARNS 

The house of Bams stands on a green knoll above the 
Tweed, half-way between the village of Stobo and the town 
of Peebles. Tweed here is no great rolling river, but a 
shallow, prattling stream, and just below the house it winds 
around a small islet, where I loved to go and fish; for it was 
an adventure to reach the place, since a treacherous pool lay 
not a yard below it. The dwelling was white and square, 
with a beacon tower on the top, which once flashed the light 
from Neidpath to Drochil when the English came over the 
Border. It had not been used for half a hundred years, 
but a brazier still stood there, and a pile of rotten logs, 
grim mementoes of elder feuds. This also was a haunt of 
mine, for jackdaws and owls built in the corners, and it was 
choice fun of a spring morning to search for eggs at the risk 
of my worthless life. The parks around stretched to Manor 
village on the one side, and nigh to the foot of the Lyne 
Water on the other. Manor Water as far as Posso belonged 
to us, and many a rare creel have I had out of its pleasant 
reaches. Behind, rose the long heathery hill of the Scrape, 
which is so great a hill that while one side looks down on us 
another overhangs the wood of Dawyck. Beyond that 
again came Dollar Law and the wild fells which give birth 
to the Tweed, the Yarrow, and the Annan. 

Within the house, by the great hall-fire, my father, 
William Burnet, spent his days. I mind well his great 
figure in the armchair, a mere wreck of a man, but mighty 
in his very ruin. He wore a hat, though he seldom went 
out, to mind him of the old days when he was so busy at 
hunting and harrying that he had never his head uncovered. 
His beard was streaked with grey, and his long nose, with 
a break in the middle (which is a mark of our family), and 
bushy eyebrows gave him a fearsome look to a chance 
stranger. In his young days he had been extraordinarily 
handsome and active, and, if all tales be true, no better than 


THE HOUSE OF BARNS 


21 


he should have been. He was feared in those days for his 
great skill in night-foraying, so that he won the name of the 
“ Howlet,” which never left him. Those were the high 
days of our family, for my father was wont to ride to the 
Weaponshow with seven horsemen behind him ; now we 
could scarce manage four. But in one of bis night-rides 
his good fortune failed him ; for being after no good on the 
hills above Megget one dark wintry night, he fell over the 
Bitch Craig, horse and all; and though he escaped with his 
life, he was lamed in both legs and condemned to the house 
for the rest of his days. Of a summer night he would come 
out to the lawn with two mighty sticks to support him, 
and looking to the Manor Water hills, would shake his fist 
at them as old enemies. In his later days he took kindly 
to theology and learning, both of which, in the person of 
Master Porter, dined at his table every day. I know not 
how my father, who was a man of much penetration, could 
have been deceived by this man, who had as much religion 
as an ox. As for learning, he had some rag-tag scraps of 
Latin which were visited on me for my sins ; but in eating 
he had no rival, and would consume beef and pasty and ale 
like a famished army. He preached every Sabbath in the 
little kirk of Lyne, below the Roman camp, and a woful 
service it was. I went regularly by my father’s orders, but 
I was the only one from the household of Bams. I fear 
that not even my attendance at his church brought me 
Master Porter’s love; for I had acquired nearly as much 
Latin as he possessed himself, and vexed his spirit at lesson- 
hours with unanswerable questions. At other times, too, 
I would rouse him to the wildest anger by singing a profane 
song of my own making : 

*' O, ken ye his Reverence Minister Tam, 

Wi’ a heid like a stot and a face like a ram ? ” 

To me my father was more than kind. He was never 
tired of making plans for my future. “ John,” he would 
say, “ you shall go to Glasgow College, for you have the 
makings of a scholar in you. Ay, and we’ll make you a 


22 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

soldier, John, and a good honest gentleman to fight for your 
king, as your forbears did before you.” (This was scarce 
true, for there never yet was a Burnet who fought for any¬ 
thing but his own hand.) “ No damned Whig for me. Gad, 
how I wish I were hale in the legs to be off to the hills with 
the Johnstones and Keiths. There wouldna be one of the 
breed left from Tweedwell to the Brig o’ Peebles.” Then he 
would be anxious about my martial training, and get down 
the foils to teach me a lesson. From this he would pass to 
tales of his own deeds till the past would live before him, 
and his eyes would glow with their old fire. Then he would 
forget his condition, and seek to show me how some parry 
was effected. There was but one result: his poor weak legs 
would give way beneath him. Then I had to carry him to 
his bed, swearing deeply at his infirmities and lamenting 
the changes of fife. 

In those days the Bumets were a poor family—a poor 
and a proud. My grandfather had added much to the lands 
by rapine and extortion—ill-gotten gains which could not 
last. He had been a man of a violent nature, famed over 
all the South for his feats of horsemanship and swordsman¬ 
ship. He died suddenly, of overdrinking, at the age of 
fifty-five, and now lies in the kirk of Lyne beneath an effigy 
representing the Angel Gabriel coming for his soul. His 
last words are recorded : ”0 Lord, I dinna want to dee, I 
dinna want to dee. If ye’ll let me live. I’ll run up the 
sklidders o’ Cademuir to a’ eternity.” The folk of the place 
seldom spoke of him, though my father upheld him as a 
man of true spirit who had an eye to the improvement of 
his house. Of the family before him I had the history at 
my finger-ends. This was a subject of which my father 
never tired, for he held that the genealogy of the Bumets 
was a thing of vastly greater importance than that of the 
kings of Rome or Judah. From the old days when we held 
Burnetland, in the parish of Broughton, and called ourselves 
of that ilk, I had the unbroken history of the family in my 
memory. Ay, and also of the great house of Traquair, for 
my mother had been a Stewart, and, as my father said 


THE HOUSE OF BARNS 


23 


often, this was the only family in the countryside which 
could hope to rival us in antiquity or valour. 

My father's brother, Gilbert, had married the heiress of 
a westland family, and with her had got the lands of Eagle- 
sham, about the headwaters of Cart. His son Gilbert, my 
cousin, was a tall lad some four years my senior, who on 
several occasions rode to visit us at Bams. He was of a 
handsome, soldierly appearance, and looked for an early 
commission in a Scots company. At first I admired him 
mightily, for he was skilful at all sports, rode like a moss¬ 
trooper, and could use his sword in an incomparable fashion. 
My father could never abide him, for he could not cease to 
tell of his own prowess, and my father was used to say that 
he loved no virtue better than modesty. Also, he angered 
every servant about the place by his hectoring, ana one 
day so offended old Tam Todd that Tam flung a bucket at 
him, and threatened to duck him in the Tweed : which he 
doubtless would have done, old as he was, for he was a very 
Hercules of a man. This presented a nice problem to all 
concerned, and I know not which was the more put out, 
Tam or my father. Finalty it ended in the latter reading 
Gilbert a long and severe lecture, and then bidding Tam ask 
his pardon, seeing that the dignity of the family had to be 
sustained at any cost. 

One other relative, though in a distant way, I must not 
omit to mention, for the day came when every man of our 
name was proud to claim the kinship. This was Gilbert 
Burnet, of Edinburgh, afterwards Divinity Professor in 
Glasgow, Bishop of Salisbury, and the author of the famous 
“ Bishop Burnet's History of his Own Times." I met him 
often in after days, and once in London he had me to his 
house and entertained me during my stay. Of him I shall 
have to tell hereafter, but now he was no more than a name 
to me, a name which my father was fond of repeating when 
he wished to recall me to gravity. 

Tam Todd, my father’s grieve, who managed the lands 
about the house, deserves more than a passing word. He 
was about sixty years of age, stooped in the back, but with 


24 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

long arms and the strength of a giant. At one time he had 
fought for Gustavus, and might have risen high in the 
ranks, had not a desperate desire to see his native land come 
upon him and driven him to slip off one night and take 
ship for Leith. He had come to Peebles, where my father 
met him, and admiring his goodly stature, took him into 
his service, in which Tam soon became as expert at the 
breeding of sheep as ever he had been at the handling of a 
pike or musket. He was the best story-teller and the 
cunningest fisher in the place, full of quaint foreign words, 
French, and Swedish, and High Dutch, for the army of 
Gustavus had been made up of the riddlings of Europe. 
From him I learned to fence with the rapier, and a past- 
master he was, for my father told how, in his best days, he 
could never so much as look at Tam. Bon pied bon ceil 
was ever his watchword, and I have proved it a good one ; 
for, short though it be, if a man but follow it he may fear 
nothing. Also, he taught me a thing which has been most 
useful to me, and which I will speak of again—the art of 
using the broadsword or claymore, as the wild Highlanders 
call it. My school was on a strip of green grass beside 
Tweed, and there I have had many a tough encounter in 
the long summer nights. He made me stand with my back 
to the deep pool, that I might fear to step back ; and thus I 
learned to keep my ground, a thing which he held to be of 
the essence of swordsmanship. 

My nurse, Jean Morran, was the only woman body about 
the place. She and Tam did the cooking between them, for 
that worthy had learned the art gastronomical from a 
Frenchman whose life he saved, and who, in gratitude, 
taught him many excellent secrets for dishes, and stole ten 
crowns. She had minded me and mended my clothes and 
seen to my behaviour ever since my mother died of a fever 
when I was scarce two years old. Of my mother I remember 
nothing, but if one may judge from my father’s long grief 
and her portrait in the dining-hall, she had been a good and 
a gentle as well as a most beautiful woman. Jean, with 
her uncouth tongue and stem face, is still a clear figure in 


THE HOUSE OF BARNS 


25 


my memory. She was a kind nurse in the main, and if her 
temper was doubtful from many sore trials, her cakes and 
sugar were excellent salves to my wronged heart. She was, 
above all things, a famous housewife, keeping the place 
spotless and clean, so that when one entered the house of 
Bams there was always something fresh and cool in the 
very air. 

But here I am at the end of my little gallery, for the place 
was bare of folk, and the life a lonely one. Here I grew up 
amid the woods and hills and the clean air, with a great 
zest for all the little excellencies of my lot, and a tolerance 
of its drawbacks. By the time I had come to sixteen years 
I had swam in every pool in Tweed for miles up and down, 
climbed every hill, fished in every burn, and ridden and 
fallen from every horse in my father’s stable. I had been 
as far west as Tintock Hill and as far south as the Loch o’ 
the Lowes. Nay, I had once been taken to Edinburgh in 
company with Tam, who brought me a noble fishing-rod, 
and showed me all the wondrous things to be seen. A band 
of soldiers passed down the High Street from the Castle 
with a great clanking and jingling, and I saw my guide 
straighten up his back and keep time with his feet to their 
tread. All the way home, as I sat before him on the broad 
back of Maisie, he told me tales of his campaigns, some of 
them none too fit for a boy’s ear ; but he was carried away 
and knew not what he was saying. This first put a taste 
for the profession of arms into my mind, which was assidu¬ 
ously fostered by my fencing lessons and the many martial 
tales I read. I found among my father’s books the chroni¬ 
cles of Froissart and a history of the Norman Kings, both in 
the English, which I devoured by night and day. Then I 
had Tacitus and Livy, and in my fourteenth year I began 
the study of Greek with a master at Peebles. So that 
soon I had read most of the “ Iliad ” and all the “ Odyssey,” 
and would go about repeating the long, swinging lines. I 
think that story of the man who, at the siege of some French 
town, shouted a Homeric battle-piece most likely to be 
true, for with me the Greek had a like effect, and made me 


26 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

tramp many miles over the hills or ride the horses more hard 
than my father permitted. 

But this book-work was, after all, but half of my life, 
and that the less memorable. All the sights and sounds of 
that green upland vale are linked for me with memories of 
boyish fantasies. I used to climb up the ridge of Scrape 
when the sun set and dream that the serried ranks of hills 
were a new country where all was strange, though I knew 
well that an hour of the morning would dispel the fancy. 
Then I would descend from the heights, and for weeks be 
so fiercely set on the sports of the time of year that I had 
scarcely time for a grave thought. I have often gone forth 
to the lambing with the shepherds, toiled all day in the 
brown moors, and at night dropped straight off to sleep as I 
sat in my chair at meat. Then there was the salmon-fishing 
in the late spring, when the blood ran hot at the flare of the 
torches and the shimmer of the spears, and I, a forlorn young 
fool, shivered in my skin as the keen wind blew down the 
water. There was the swing and crackle of the stones in 
winter when the haughlands of Manor were flooded, and a 
dozen brown-faced men came to the curling and the air 
rang with shouts and laughter. I have mind, too, of fierce 
days of snow when men looked solemn and the world was 
so quiet that I whistled to keep me from despondency, and 
the kitchen at Bams was like a place in an inn with famish¬ 
ing men and dripping garments. Then Tweed would be 
buried under some great drift and its kindly flow sorely 
missed by man and beast. But best I remember the 
loosening of winter, when the rains from the moors sent 
down the river roaring-red, and the vale was one pageant 
of delicate greenery and turbid brown torrent. 

Often I would take my books and go into the heart of 
the hills for days and nights. This, my father scarce liked, 
but he never hindered me. It was glorious to kindle your 
fire in the neuk of a glen, broil your trout, and make your 
supper under the vault of the pure sky. Sweet, too, at 
noonday to lie beside the wellhead of some lonely bum, and 
think of many things that can never be set down and are 


THE SPATE IN TWEED 


27 


scarce remembered. But these were but dreams, and this 
is not their chronicle; so it behooves me to shut my ear 
to vagrom memories. 

To Dawyck I went the more often the older I grew. For 
Marjory Veitch had grown into a beautiful, lissom girl, with 
the same old litheness of body and gaiety ol spirit. She was 
my comrade in countless escapades, and though I have 
travelled the world since then I have never found a readier 
or a braver. But with the years she grew more maidenly, 
and I dared less to lead her into mad ventures. Nay, I 
who had played with her in the woods and fished and raced 
with her as with some other lad, began to feel a foolish awe 
in her presence, and worshipped her from afar. The fairy 
learning of her childhood was but the index of a wistfulness 
and delicacy of nature which, to my grosser spirit, seemed 
something to uncover one’s head before. I have loved her 
dearly all my life, but I have never more than half under¬ 
stood her ; which is a good gift of God to most men, for the 
confounding of vanity. 

To her a great sorrow had come. For when she was 
scarce thirteen, her father, the laird of Dawyck, who had 
been ever of a home-keeping nature, died from a fall while 
hunting on the brow of Scrape. He had been her child¬ 
hood’s companion, and she mourned for him as sorely as 
ever human being mourned for another. Michael, her only 
brother, was far abroad in a regiment of the Scots French 
Guards, so she was left alone in the great house with no 
other company than the servants and a cross-grained aunt 
who heard but one word in twenty. For this reason I rode 
over the oftener to comfort her loneliness. 


CHAPTER III 

THE SPATE IN TWEED 

The year 1683 was with us the driest year in any man’s 
memory. From the end of April to the end of July we had 


28 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

scarce a shower. The hay-harvest was ruined beyond 
repair, and man and beast were sick with the sultry days. 
It was on the last Monday of July that I, wearied with 
wandering listlessly about the house, bethought myself of 
riding to Peebles to see the great match at bowls which is 
played every year for the silver horn. I had no expecta¬ 
tion of a keen game, for the green was sure to be wellnigh 
ruined with the sun, and men had lost spirit in such weather. 
But the faintest interest is better than purposeless idleness, 
so I roused myself from languor and set out. 

I saddled Maisie the younger, for this is a family name 
among our horses, and rode down by the Tweed side to the 
town. The river ran in the midst of a great bed of sun¬ 
baked gravel—a little trickle that a man might step across. 
I do not know where the fish had gone, but they, too, 
seemed scared by the heat, for not a trout plashed to relieve 
the hot silence. When I came to the Manor pool I stood 
still in wonder, for there for the first time in my life I saw 
the stream dry. Manor, which is in winter a roaring torrent 
and at other times a clear, full stream, had not a drop of 
running water in its bed : naught but a few stagnant pools 
green with slime. It was a'grateful change to escape from 
the sun into the coolness of the Neidpath woods ; but even 
there a change was seen, for the ferns hung their fronds 
wearily and the moss had lost all its greenness. When once 
more I came out to the sun, its beating on my face was so 
fierce that it almost burned, and I was glad when I came to 
the town, and the shade of tree and dwelling. 

The bowling-green of Peebles, which is one of the best in 
the country, lies at the west end of the High Street at the 
back of the Castle Hill. It looks down on Tweed and 
Peebles Water, where they meet at the Cuddie's Pool, and 
thence over a wide stretch of landscape to the high hills. 
The turf had been kept with constant waterings, but, not¬ 
withstanding, it looked grey and withered. Here I found 
half the men-folk of Peebles assembled and many from the 
villages near, to see the match v/hich is the greatest event 
of the month. Each player wore a ribband of a special 


THE SPATE IN TWEED 


29 


colour. Most of them had stripped off their coats and 
jerkins to give their arms free play, and some of the best 
were busied in taking counsel with their friends as to the 
lie of the green. The landlord of the Crosskeys was there 
with a great red favour stuck in his hat, looking, as I 
thought, too fat and rubicund a man to have a steady eye. 
Near him was Peter Crustcrackit, the tailor, a little wiry 
man with legs bent from sitting cross-legged, thin active 
hands, and keen eyes well used to the sewing of fine work. 
Then there were carters and shepherds, stout fellows with 
bronzed faces and great brawny chests, and the miller of 
the Wauk-mill, who was reported the best bowl-player in 
the town. Some of the folk had come down like myself 
merely to watch ; and among them I saw Andrew Green¬ 
lees, the surgeon, who had tended me what time I went over 
the cauld. A motley crowd of the odds and ends of the 
place hung around or sat on the low wall—poachers and 
black-fishers and all the riff-raff of the town. 

The jack was set, the order of the game arranged, and the 
play commenced. A long man from the Quair Water began, 
and sent his bowl curling up the green not four inches from 
the mark. 

“ Weel dune for Quair Water,” said one. “ They’re nane 
sae blind thereaways.” 

Then a flesher’s lad came and sent a shot close on the 
heels of the other and lay by his side. 

At this, there were loud cries of “ Weel dune, Coo’s 
Blether,” which was a name they had for him; and the 
fellow grew red and withdrew to the back. 

Next came a little nervous man, who looked entreatingly 
at the bystanders as if to bespeak their consideration. 
“ Jock Look-up, my dear,” said a man solemnly, “ compose 
your anxious mind, for thae auld wizened airms o’ yours’ll 
no send it half-road.” The little man sighed and played 
his bowl: it was even as the other had said, for his shot 
was adjudged a bogg and put off the green. 

Then many others played till the green was crowded at 
one end with the balls. They played in rinks, and interest 


30 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

fell off for some little time till it came to the turn of the 
two acknowledged champions, Master Crustcrackit and the 
miller, to play against one another. Then the onlookers 
crowded round once more. 

The miller sent a long swinging shot which touched the 
jack and carried it some inches onward. Then a bowl from 
the tailor curled round and lay between them and the 
former mark. Now arose a great dispute (for the players 
of Peebles had a way of their own, and to understand their 
rules required no ordinary share of brains) as to the pro¬ 
priety of Master Crustcrackit’s shot, some alleging that he 
had played off the cloth, others defending. The miller grew 
furiously warm. 

“Ye wee, sneck-drawin’ tailor-body, wad ye set up your 
bit feckless face against a man o' place and siller ? " 

“ Haud your tongue, miller,” cried one. “ Ye've nae 
cause to speak ill o' the way God made a man.’’ 

Master Crustcrackit, however, needed no defender. He 
was ready in a second. 

“ And what dae ye ca' yoursel' but a great, God-forsaken 
dad o’ a man, wi’ a wame like Braid Law and a mouth like 
the bottomless pit for yill and beef and a' manner o’ carnal 
bakemeats. You to speak abune your breath to me,’’ and 
he hopped round his antagonist like an enraged fighting- 
cock. 

What the miller would have said no one may guess, had 
not a middle-aged man, who had been sitting on a settle 
placidly smoking a long white pipe, come up to see what 
was the dispute. He was dressed in a long black coat, with 
small-clothes of black, and broad silver-buckled shoon. 
The plain white cravat around his neck marked him for a 
minister. 

“ William Laverlaw and you, Peter Crustcrackit, as the 
minister of this parish, I command ye to be silent. I will 
have no disturbance on this public green. Nay, for I will 
adjudge your difference myself.” 

All were silent in a second, and a hush of interest fell on 
the place. 


THE SPATE IN TWEED 


3 i 

“ But that canna be/' grumbled the miller, " for ye're 
nae great hand at the bowls.” 

The minister stared sternly at the speaker, who sank at 
once into an aggrieved quiet. “ As God has appointed me 
the spiritual guide of this unworthy town, so also has He 
made me your master in secular affairs. I will settle your 
disputes and none other. And, sir, if you or any other dare 
gainsay me, then I shall feel justified in leaving argument 
for force, and the man who offends I shall fling into the 
Cuddie’s Pool for the clearing of his brain and the benefit 
of his soul.” He spoke in a slow, methodical tone, rolling 
the words over his tongue. Then I remembered the many 
stories I had heard of this man’s autocratic rule over the 
folk of the good town of Peebles; how he, alien like to 
whig and prelatist, went on his steadfast path caring for no 
man and snapping his fingers at the mandates of authority. 
And indeed in the quiet fierce face and weighty jaws there 
was something which debarred men from meddling with 
their owner. 

Such was his influence on the people that none dared 
oppose him, and he gave his decision, which seemed to me 
to be a just and fair one. After this they fell to their play 
once more. 

Meantime I had been looking on at the sport from the 
vantage-ground of the lowjwall which looked down on the 
river. I had debated a question of farriery with the sur¬ 
geon, who was also something of a horse-doctor ; and called 
out greetings to the different players, according as I fav¬ 
oured their colours. Then when the game no longer amused 
me, I had fallen to looking over the country, down to the 
edge of the water where the small thatched cottages were 
yellow in the heat, and away up the broad empty channel 
of Tweed. The cauld, where salmon leap in the spring and 
autumn, and which is the greatest cauld on the river unless 
it be the one at Melrose, might have been crossed dryshod. 
I began to hate the weariful, everlasting glare and sigh for 
the clouds once more, and the soft turf and the hazy sky¬ 
line. Now it was so heavily oppressive that a man could 


32 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

scarce draw a free breath. The players dripped with sweat 
and looked nigh exhausted, and for myself the sulphurous 
air weighed on me like a mount of lead and confused such 
wits as I had. 

Even as I looked I saw a strange thing on the river bank 
which chained my languid curiosity. For down the haugh, 
swinging along at a great pace, came a man, the like of 
whom I had seldom seen. He ran at a steady trot more 
like a horse than a human creature, with his arms set close 
by his sides and without bonnet or shoes. His head swung 
from side to side as with excessive weariness, and even at 
that distance I could see how he panted. In a trice he was 
over Peebles Water and had ascended the bank to the 
bowling-green, cleared the low dyke, and stood gaping before 
us. Now I saw him plainer, and I have rarely seen a 
stranger sight. He seemed to have come a great distance, 
but no sweat stood on his brow ; only a dun copper colour 
marking the effect of the hot sun. His breeches were 
utterly ragged and in places showed his long supple limbs. 
A shock of black hair covered his head and shaded his 
swarthy face. His eyes were wild and keen as a hawk’s, 
and his tongue hung out of his mouth like a dog’s in a 
chase. Every man stopped his play and looked at the queer 
newcomer. A whisper went round the place that it was that 
" fule callant frae Brochtoun,” but this brought no news to 
me. 

The man stood still for maybe three minutes with his eyes 
fixed on the ground as if to recover breath. Then he got 
up with dazed glances, like one wakening from sleep. He 
stared at me, then at the players, and burst into his tale, 
speaking in a high, excited voice. 

" I hae run frae Drummeller to bring ye word. Quick, 
and get the folk out o’ the waterside hooses or the feck o* 
the toun ’ll be soomin’ to Berwick in an ’oor.” 

No one spoke, but all stared as if they took him for a 
madman. 

“ There’s been an awfu’ storm up i’ the muirs,” he went 
on, panting, “ and Tweed’s cornin’ doun like a mill-race. 


THE SPATE IN TWEED 


33 


The herd o’ Powmood tellt me, and I got twae ’oors start 
o't and cam off here what I could rin. Get the folk out o’ 
the waterside hooses when I bid ye, wi' a* their gear and 
plenishing, or there’ll be no sae muckle as a groat’s worth 
left by nicht. Up wi’ ye and haste, for there’s nae time to 
lose. I heard the roar o’ the water miles off, louder than 
ony thunderstorm and mair terrible than an army wi’ 
banners. Quick, ye auld doited bodies, if ye dinna want 
to hae mourning and lamentation i’ the toun o' Peebles.” 

At this, as you may believe, a great change passed over 
all. Some made no words about it, but rushed into the 
town to give the alarm ; others stared stupidly as if waiting 
for more news ; while some were disposed to treat the whole 
matter as a hoax. This enraged the newsbearer beyond 
telling. Springing up, he pointed to the western sky, and 
far off we saw a thick blackness creeping up the skyline. 
“ If ye’ll no believe me,” said he, “ will ye believe the finger 
o’ God ? ” The word and the sight convinced the most dis¬ 
trusting. 

Now Tweed, unlike all other rivers of my knowledge, 
rises terribly at the first rain and travels slowly, so that 
Tweedsmuir may be under five feet of water and Peebles 
high and dry. This makes the whole valley a place of 
exceeding danger in sultry weather, for no man knows when 
a thunderstorm may break in the hills and send the stream 
down a raging torrent. This, too, makes it possible to hear 
word of a flood before it comes, and by God’s grace to pro¬ 
vide against it. 

The green was soon deserted. I rushed down to the 
waterside houses, which were in the nearest peril, and in 
shorter time than it takes to tell, we had the people out and 
as much of their belongings as were worth the saving ; then 
we hastened to the low-lying cottages on Tweed Green and 
did likewise. Some of the folk seemed willing to resist, 
because, as they said, “ Whae kenned but that the body 
micht be a leear and they werena to hae a’ this wark for 
naething ? ” For the great floods were but a tradition, and 
only the old men had seen the ruin which the spate could 

B 


34 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

work. Nevertheless, even these were convinced by a 
threatening sky and a few words from the newsbearer’s 
trenchant tongue. Soon the High Street and the wynds 
were thick with household belongings, and the Castle Hill 
was crowded with folk to see the coming of the flood. 

By this time the grim line of black had grown over half 
the sky, and down fell great drops of rain into the 
white, sun-baked channel. It was strange to watch these 
mighty splashes falling into the little stagnant pools and the 
runlets of flowing water. And still the close, thick heat 
hung over all, and men looked at the dawnings of the storm 
with sweat running over their brows. With the rain came 
a mist—a white ghastly haze which obliterated the hills and 
came down nigh to the stream. A sound, too, grew upon 
our ears, at first far away and dim, but increasing till it 
became a dull hollow thunder, varied with a strange crack¬ 
ling, swishing noise which made a man eerie to listen to. 
Then all of a sudden the full blast of the thing came upon 
us. Men held their breaths as the wind and rain choked 
them and drove them back. It was scarce possible to see 
far before, but the outlines of the gorge of Neidpath fleeted 
through the drift, whence the river issued. Every man 
turned his eyes thither and strained them to pierce the 
gloom. 

Suddenly round the comer of the hill appeared a great 
yellow wave crested with white foam and filling the whole 
space. Down it came roaring and hissing, mowing the pines 
by the waterside as a reaper mows down hay with a scythe. 
Then with a mighty bound it broke from the hill-barriers 
and spread over the haugh. Now, the sound was like the 
bubbling of a pot ere it boils. We watched it in terror and 
admiration, as it swept on its awful course. In a trice it 
was at the cauld, and the cauld disappeared under a whirl 
of foam ; now it was on the houses, and the walls went in 
like nutshells and the rubble was borne onward. A cry got 
up of “ the bridge,” and all hung in wonder as it neared the 
old stonework, the first barrier to the torrent's course, the 
brave bridge of Peebles. It flung itself on it with fiendish 


THE SPATE IN TWEED 


35 


violence, but the stout masonwork stood firm, and the 
boiling tide went on through the narrow arches, leaving the 
bridge standing unshaken, as it had stood against many a 
flood. As we looked, we one and all broke into a cheer in 
honour of the old masons who had made so trusty a piece 
of stone. 

I found myself in the crowd of spectators standing next 
to the man who had brought the tidings. He had recovered 
his breath and was watching the sight with a look half of 
interest and half of vexation. When all was past and only 
the turbid river remained, he shook himself like a dog and 
made to elbow his way out. “ I maun be awa’," he said, 
speaking to himself, “ and a sair job I’ll hae gettin’ ower 
Lyne Water. When I heard him I turned round and con¬ 
fronted him. There was something so pleasing about his 
face, his keen eyes and alert head, that I could not forbear 
from offering him my hand, and telling him of my admira¬ 
tion for his deed. I was still but a boy and he was clearly 
some years my elder, so I made the advance, I doubt not, 
with a certain shyness and hesitancy. He looked at me 
sharply and smiled. 

" Ye’re the young laird o’ Bams,” said he ; “ I ken ye 
weel though ye maybe are no acquaint wi’ me. I’m muckle 
honoured, sir, and gin ye’ll come Brochtoun-ways sometime 
and speir for Nicol Plenderleith, he’ll tak ye to bums that 
were never fished afore and hills that never heard the sound 
o’ a shot.” 

I thanked him, and watched him slipping through the 
crowd till he was lost to view. This was my first meeting 
with Nicol Plenderleith, of whose ways and doings this tale 
shall have much to say. The glamour of the strange fellow 
was still upon me as I set myself to make my road home. I 
am almost ashamed to tell of my misfortunes; for after 
crossing the bridge and riding to Manor Water, I found that 
this stream likewise had risen and had not left a bridge in 
its whole course. So I had to go up as far as St. Gordians’ 
Cross before I could win over it, and did not reach Barns 
till after midnight, where I found my father half-crazy with 


36 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

concern for me and Tam Todd making ready to go and seek 
me. 


CHAPTER IV 

I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW 

By this time I had grown a great stalwart lad, little above 
the middle height, but broad and sinewy. I had made 
progress in all manly sports and could fling the hammer 
almost as far as the Manor blacksmith, while in leaping and 
running I had few rivals among lads of my age. Also I was 
no bad swordsman, but could stand my own against all the 
wiles of Tam Todd, and once even disarmed him to his own 
unspeakable disgust. In my studies, which I pursued as 
diligently as I could with no teachers and not over-many 
books, I had made some little advance, having read through 
most of the Greek tragedians and advanced some distance 
in the study of Plato ; while in the Latin tongue I had 
become such an adept that I could both read and write it 
with ease. 

When I had reached the mature age of eighteen, who 
should come up into our parts but my famous relative. 
Master Gilbert Burnet, the preacher at St. Clement’s in 
London, of whom I have already spoken. He was making a 
journey to Edinburgh and had turned out of his way to 
revive an old acquaintance. My father was overjoyed to 
see him and treated him to the best the house could produce. 
He stayed with us two days, and I remember him still as 
he sat in a great armchair opposite my father, with his broad 
velvet cap and grey, peaked beard, and weighty brows. 
Yet when he willed, though for ordinary a silent man, he 
could talk as gaily and wittily as any town gallant; so much 
indeed that my father, who was somewhat hard to please, 
declared him the best companion he ever remembered. 

Before he left. Master Burnet examined me on my pro- 


I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW 37 

gress in polite learning, and finding me well advanced, he 
would have it that I should be sent forthwith to Glasgow 
College. He exacted a promise from my father to see to 
this, and left behind him, when he departed, letters of 
introduction to many of the folk there, for he himself had, 
at one time, been professor of divinity in the place. As for 
myself, I was nothing loath to go, and see places beyond 
Tweeddale and add to my stock of learning ; for about this 
time a great enthusiasm for letters had seized me (which I 
suppose happens at some time or other to most men), and 
I conceived my proper vocation in life to be that of the 
scholar. I have found in an old manuscript book a list 
of the titles of imaginary works, editions, poems, treatises, 
all with my unworthy name subscribed as the author. So 
it was settled that I should ride to Glasgow and take 
lodgings in the town for the sake of the college classes. 

I set out one November morning, riding Maisie alone, for 
no student was allowed to have a servant, nor any one below 
the degree of Master of Arts. The air was keen and frosty, 
and I rode in high fettle by the towns of Biggar and Lanark 
to the valley of the Clyde. I lay all night at Crossford in 
the house of a distant relative. Thence the next day I rode 
to Hamilton and in the evening came to the bridge of the 
Clyde at Glasgow. Then I presented myself to the Princi¬ 
pal and Regents of the college and was duly admitted, 
putting on the red gown, the badge of the student class, 
than which I believe there is no more hideous habiliment. 

The college in those days was poor enough, having been 
wellnigh ruined by the extortions of Lord Middleton and 
his drunken crew ; and it had not yet benefited by the rich 
donations of the Reverend Zachary Boyd of the Barony 
Kirk. Still, the standard of learning in the place was extra¬ 
ordinarily high, especially in dialectic and philosophy—a 
standard which had been set by the famous Andrew Mel¬ 
ville when he was a professor in the place. I have heard 
disputations there in the evenings between the schoolmen 
and the new philosophers, the like of which could scarcely 
be got from the length and breadth of the land. 


38 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

Across the High Street were the college gardens and green 
pleasant orchards where the professors were wont to walk 
and the scholars to have their games. Through the middle 
ran the clear Molendinar Bum, so called by the old Romans, 
and here I loved to watch the trout and young salmon 
leaping. There was a severe rule against scholars fishing in 
the stream, so I was fain to content myself with the sight. 
For soon I violent fit of home-sickness seized me, and I 
longed for the rush of Tweed and the pleasant sweep of 
Manor ; so it was one of my greatest consolations to look 
at this water and fancy myself far away from the town. 
One other lad who came from Perthshire used to come and 
stand with me and tell me great tales of his fishing exploits; 
and I did likewise with him till we became great compan¬ 
ions. Many afternoons I spent here, sometimes with a 
book and sometimes without one; in the fine weather I 
would he on the grass and dream, and in rough, boisterous 
winter days I loved to watch the Molendinar, flooded and 
angry, fling its red waters against the old stones of the 
bridge. 

No one of us was permitted to carry arms of any kind, 
so I had to sell my sword on my first coming to the town. 
This was a great hardship to me, for whereas when I carried 
a weapon I had some sense of my own importance, now I 
felt no better than the rest of the unarmed crowd about me. 
Yet it was a wise precaution, for in other places where 
scholars are allowed to strut like cavaliers there are fights 
and duels ah the day long, so that the place looks less like 
an abode of the Muses than a disorderly tavern. Neverthe¬ 
less, there were many manly’exercises to be had, for in the 
greens in the garden we had trials of skill at archery and 
golf and many other games of the kind. At the first 
mentioned I soon became a great master, for I had a keen 
eye from much living among woods and hills, and soon there 
was no one who could come near me at the game. As for 
golf, I utterly failed to excel; and indeed it seems to me that 
golf is like the divine art of poetry, the gift for which is 
implanted in man at his birth or not at all. Be that as it 


I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW 39 

may, I never struck a golf-ball fairly in my life, and I mis¬ 
doubt I never shall. 

As for my studies, for which I came to the place, I think I 
made great progress. For after my first fit of home-sickness 
was over, I fell in with the ways of the college, and acquired 
such a vast liking for the pursuit of learning that I felt 
more convinced than ever that Providence had made me 
for a scholar. In my classes I won the commendation of 
both professors ; especially in the class of dialectic, where 
an analysis of Aristotle's method was highly praised by 
Master Sandeman, the professor. This fine scholar and 
accomplished gentleman helped me in many ways, and for 
nigh two months, when he was sick of the fever, I lectured 
to his class in his stead. We were all obliged to talk in the 
Latin tongue and at first my speech was stiff and awkward 
enough, but by and by I fell into the way of it and learned 
to patter it as glibly as a Spanish monk. 

It may be of interest to those of my house that I should 
give some account of my progress in the several studies, to 
show that our family is not wholly a soldiering one. In 
Greek I studied above others the works of Plato, delighting 
especially in his Phaedo, which I had almost by heart; 
Aristotle likewise, though I read but little of him in his 
own tongue. I completed a translation of the first part of 
Plato’s Republic into Latin, which Master Sandeman was 
pleased to say was nigh as elegant as George Buchanan’s. 
Also I was privileged to discover certain notable emenda¬ 
tions in the text of this work, which I sent in manuscript 
to the famous Schooldus of Groningen, who incorporated 
them in his edition then in preparation, but after the fashion 
of Dutchmen sent me no thanks. 

As regards philosophy, which I hold the most divine of all 
studies, I was in my first year a most earnest Platonic ; 
nay, I went farther than the master himself, as is the way 
of all little minds when they seek to comprehend a great 
one. In those days I went about in sober attire and strove 
in all things to order my fife according to the rules of philo¬ 
sophy, seeking to free myself from all disturbing outside 


40 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

powers and live the life of pure contemplation. I looked 
back with unutterable contempt on my past as a turbid and 
confused medley, nor did I seek anything better in life than 
quiet and leisure for thought and study. In such a condi¬ 
tion I spent the first month of my stay at Glasgow. 

Then the Platonic fit left me and I was all for Aristotle 
and the Peripatetics. Here, at last, thought I, have I got 
the siccutn lumen, which Heraclitus spoke of: and his 
distinct and subtle reasoning seemed to me to be above 
doubt. And indeed I have never wondered at the school¬ 
men and others who looked upon Aristotle as having reached 
the height of human wisdom, for his method is so all- 
embracing and satisfying that it breeds wonder in the heart 
of any man ; and it affords so sure a bottom for thought 
that men become Aristotelians. 

In the midsummer months I went down to Tweeddale 
again, where I astonished my father and all in the place 
with my new learning, and also grieved them. For I had 
no love for fishing or shooting ; I would scarce ride two 
miles for the pleasure of it; my father’s tales, in which I 
delighted before, had grown tiresome ; and I had no liking 
for anything save bending over books. When I went to 
Dawyck to see Marjory, she knew not what had come over 
me, I was so full of whims and fancies. “ O John,” she said, 
“ your face is as white as a woman’s, and you have such a 
horrible cloak. Go and get another at once, you silly boy, 
and not shame your friends.” Yet even Marjory had little 
power over me, for I heeded her not, though aforetime I 
would have ridden posthaste to Peebles and got me a new 
suit, and painted my face if I had thought that thereby I 
would pleasure her. 

When the autumn came again I returned to college more 
inclined then ever for the life of a scholar. I fell to my 
studies with renewed zeal, and would doubtless have killed 
myself with work had I not been nearly killed with the 
fever, which made me more careful of my health. And 
now, like the weathercock I was, my beliefs shifted yet 
again. For studying the schoolmen, who were the great 


I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW 41 

upholders of Aristotle, I found in them so many contra¬ 
dictions and phantasies which they fathered on their master 
that, after reading the diatribes of Peter Ramus and others 
against him, I was almost persuaded that I had been 
grievously misled. Then, at last, I saw that the fault lay 
not in Aristotle but in his followers, who sought to find in 
him things that were beyond the compass of his thought. 
So by degrees I came round toward the new philosophy, 
which a party in the college upheld. They swore by the 
great names of Bacon and Galileo and the other natural 
philosophers, but I hesitated to follow them, for they seemed 
to me to disdain all mental philosophy, which I hold is the 
greater study. I was of this way of thinking when I fell 
in one day with an English book, a translation of a work 
by a Frenchman, one Renatus Descartes, published in 
London in the year 1649. It gave an account of the pro¬ 
gress in philosophy of this man, who followed no school, 
but, clearing his mind of all presuppositions, instituted a 
method for himself. This marked for me the turning 
point; for I gave in my allegiance without hesitation to 
this philosopher, and ever since I have held by his system 
with some modifications. It is needless for me to enter 
further into my philosophy, for I have by me a written 
exposition of the works of this Descartes with my own 
additions, which I intend, if God so please, to give soon to 
the world. 

For two years I abode at the college, thinking that I was 
destined by nature for a studious life, and harbouring 
thoughts of going to the university of Saumur to complete 
my studies. I thought that my spirit was chastened to a 
fit degree, and so no doubt it was, for those who had feared 
me at first on account of my heavy fist and straightforward 
ways, now openly scoffed at me without fear of punishment. 
Indeed, one went so far one day as to jostle me off the 
causeway, and I made no return, but went on as if nothing 
had happened, deeming it beneath a wise man to be dis¬ 
tracted by mundane trifles. Yet, mind you, in all this 
there was nothing Christian or like unto the meekness of 


42 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

our Master, as I have seen in some men ; but rather an 
absurd attempt to imitate those who would have lived very 
differently had their lot been cast in our hot and turbid days. 

How all this was changed and I veered round of a sudden 
to the opposite I must hasten to tell. One April day, to¬ 
wards the close of my second year, I was going up the High 
Street toward the Cathedral with a great parcel of books 
beneath my arm, when I heard a shouting and a jingling, 
and a troop of horse came down the street. I stood back 
into the shelter of a doorway, for soldiers were wont to bear 
little love to scholars, and I did not care to risk their rough 
jests. From this place I watched their progress, and a 
gallant sight it was. Some twenty men in buff j erkins and 
steel headpieces rode with a fine clatter of bridles and 
clank of swords. I marked their fierce sun-brown faces 
and their daredevil eyes as they looked haughtily down on 
the crowd as on lower beings. And especially I marked 
their leader. He sat a fine bay horse with ease and grace ; 
his plumed hat set off his high-coloured face and long browft 
curls worn in the fashion of the day ; and as he rode he 
bowed to the people with large condescension. He was 
past in a second, but not before I had recognised the face 
and figure of my cousin Gilbert. 

I stood for some minutes staring before me, while the 
echoes Of the horses' hooves died away down the street. 
This, I thought, is the destiny of my cousin, only two years 
my elder, a soldier, a gentleman, a great man in his place ; 
while I am but a nameless scholar, dreaming away my man¬ 
hood in the pursuits of a dotard. I was so overwhelmed 
with confusion that I stood gaping with a legion of thoughts 
and opposing feelings running through my brain. Then all 
the old fighting spirit of my house rose within me. By 
Heaven, I would make an end of this; I would get me 
home without delay ; I would fling my books into the 
Clyde ; 1 would go to the wars ; I would be a great cavalier, 
and, by the Lord, I would keep up the name of the house 1 
I was astonished myself at the sudden change in my feelings, 
for in the space of some ten minutes a whole age had passed 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


43 


from me, and I had grown from a boy to some measure 
of manhood. I came out from the close-mouth with my 
head in the air and defiance against all the world in my eye. 

Before I had gone five paces I met the lad who had 
jostled me aforetime, a big fellow of a rawboned Ayrshire 
house, and before he could speak I had him by the arm and 
had pulled him across the way into the college gardens. 
There I found a quiet green place, and plucking off my coat 
I said, “ Now, Master Dalrymple, you and I have a small 
account to settle/* With that we fell to with our fists, and 
in the space of a quarter of an hour I had beaten him so 
grievously that he was fain to cry for mercy. I let him go, 
and with much whimpering he slunk away in disgust. 

Then I went into the town and bought myself a new 
blade and a fine suit of clothes—all with the greatest gusto 
*nd lightness of heart. I went to the inn where Maisie was 
stabled and bade them have her ready for me at the college 
gate in an hour. Then I bade good-bye to all my friends, 
but especially to Master Sandeman, from whom I was loath 
to part. I did not fling my books into the Clyde as at 
first I proposed, but left injunctions that they were to be 
sent by the carrier. So, having paid all my debts, for my 
father had kept me well appointed with money, I waved a 
long farewell and set out for my own country. 


CHAPTER V 

COUSINLY AFFECTION 

It was near midday before I started, so that night I got 
no farther than the town of Hamilton, but lay at the inn 
there. The next morning I left betimes, thinking to reach 
Bams in the afternoon. As I rode along the green sward by 
the side of Clyde, the larks were singing in the sky and the 
trout were plashing in the waters, and all the world was 
gay. The apple orchards sent their blossom across the road, 
and my hat brushed it down in showers on my horse and 


44 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

myself, so that we rode in a mail of pink and white. I 
plucked a little branch and set it in my hat, and sang all 
the songs I knew as I cantered along. I cried good-day to 
every man, and flung money to the little children who 
shouted as I passed, so that I believe if there had been many 
more boys on the road I would have reached Tweeddale a 
beggar. At Crossford, where the Nethan meets the Clyde, 
I met a man who had been to the salmon-fishing and had 
caught a big salmon-trout; and as I looked, my old love 
for the sport awoke within me, and I longed to feel a rod 
in my hand. It was good to be alive, to taste the fresh air, 
to feel the sun and wind, and I cried a plague on all close 
lecture-rooms and musty books. 

At Lanark I had a rare dinner at the hostel there. The 
grey old inn had excellent fare, as I knew of old, so I rode 
up to the door and demanded its best. It was blessed to 
see a man obey your words after for many months being a 
servant of others. I had a dish of well-fed trout and a 
piece of prime mutton and as good claret, I think, as I have 
ever tasted. Then I rode over Lanark Moor to Hyndford 
and through the moor of Carmichael and under the great 
shadow of Tintock. Here the smell of burning heather 
came to greet my nostrils, and so dear and homelike did it 
seem that I could have wept for very pleasure. The 
whaups and snipe were making a fine to-do on the bent, 
and the black-faced sheep grazed in peace. At the top of 
the knowe above Symington I halted, for there before my 
eyes were the blue hills of Tweeddale. There was Trehenna 
and the hills above Broughton, and Drummelzier Law and 
Glenstivon Dod, and nearer, the great Caerdon; and beyond 
all a long blue back which I knew could be none other than 
the hill of Scrape which shadowed Dawyck and my lady. 

I came to Barns at three o'clock in the afternoon, some¬ 
what stiff from my ride, but elated with my home-coming. 
It was with strange feelings that I rode up the long avenue 
of beeches, ever one of which I could have told blindfold. 
The cattle looked over the palings at me as if glad to see 
me return. Maisie cocked up her ears at the hares in the 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


45 


grass, and sniffed the hill air as if she had been in a prison 
for many days. And when I came to the bend of the road 
and saw the old weatherbeaten tower, my heart gave a 
great leap within me, for we Tweeddale men dearly love 
our own countryside, doubtless by reason of its exceeding 
beauty. 

As I rode up Tam Todd came out from the back, and 
seeing me, let fall the water which he was carrying and ran 
to my side. 

“ Eh, Maister John,” said he, “ I'm blithe to see ye back, 
sae braw and genty-like. My airm's fair like timmer wi’ 
stiffness for want o' the backsword play, and the troots in 
Tweed are turned as thick as peas for want o' you to haul 
them oot ; and twae mornings last week there were deer 
keekin’ in at the front-door as tame as kittlins. There’s 
muckle need o’ ye at hame.” 

He would have gone on in this strain for an hour, had I 
not cut him short by asking for my father. 

” Middlin’, just middlin’. He misses ye sair. He’ll 
scarce gang out-doors noo, but he’ll be a’ richt gin he sees 
ye again. Oh, and I’ve something mair to tell ye. That 
wanchancy cousin o’ yours, Maister Gilbert, cam yestreen, 
and he’ll be bidin’ till the deil kens when. I’se warrant he’s 
at meat wi’ the auld maister the noo, for he cam in frae 
the hills gey an hungry.” 

Now at this intelligence I was not over-pleased. My 
cousin was a great man and a gentleman, but never at any 
time over-friendly to me, and I knew that to my father he 
was like salt in the mouth. I blamed the ill-luck which had 
sent him to Barns on the very day of my home-coming. 
I needs must be on my dignity in his company, for he was 
quick to find matter for laughter, and it was hard that he 
should come at the time when I longed so eagerly for the 
free ways of the house. However, there was no help for 
it, I reflected, and went in. 

In the passage I met Jean Morran, my old nurse, who 
had heard the sound of voices, and come out to see who the 
newcomer might be. “ Maister John, Maister John, and 


46 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

is’t yoursel’ ? It's a glad day for the house o’ Bams when 
you come back ” ; and when I gave her the shawl-pin I 
had brought her from Glasgow, she had scarce any words 
to thank me with. So, knowing that my father would be 
in the dining-hall with his guest, I opened the door and 
walked in unbidden. 

My father sat at the head of the long oak table which had 
been scoured to a light-brown and shone like polished stone. 
Claret, his favourite drink, was in a tankard by his elbow, 
and many wines decked the board. Lower down sat my 
cousin, gallantly dressed in the fashion of the times, with 
a coat of fine Spanish leather and small-clothes of some rich 
dark stuff. His plumed hat and riding cloak of purple 
velvet lay on the settle at his side. His brown hair fell 
over his collar and shoulders and well set off his strong, 
brown face. He sat after the fashion of a soldier, on the 
side of his chair half turned away from the table, and every 
now and then he would cast a piece of meat to Pierce, my 
old hound, who lay stretched by the fireplace. 

My father turned round as I entered, and when he saw 
me his face glowed with pleasure. Had we been alone wfc 
should have met otherwise, but it is not meet to show one’* 
feelings before a stranger, even though that stranger be one 
of the family. He contented himself with looking eagerly 
upon me and bidding me welcome in a shaking voice. I 
marked with grief that his eye did not seem so keen and 
brave as before, and that he was scarce able to rise from 
his chair. 

My cousin half arose and made me a grand bow in his 
courtly fashion. 

“ Welcome, my dear cousin,” said he. “ I am glad to see 
that your studies have had little effect on your face.” (I 
was flushed with hard riding.) “ You look as if you had 
just come from a campaign. But fall to. Here are prime 
fish which I can commend ; and venison, also good, though 
I have had better. Here, too, is wine, and I drink to your 
success, my learned cousin ” ; and he filled his glass and 
drank it at a gulp. He spoke in a half-bantering tone. 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


47 


though his words were kindly. I answered him briskly. 

“ I had little thought to find you here, Gilbert, but I am 
right glad to see you. You are prospering mightily, I hear, 
and will soon be forgetting your poor cousins of Barns ” ; 
and after a few more words I set myself to give my father 
a history of my doings at Glasgow College. Again, had we 
been alone, I should have told him my causes for leaving 
and my wishes for my after life, but since my cousin was 
present, who had ever a sharp tongue, I judged it better 
to say nothing. 

I told my father all that I could think of, and then asked 
how he had fared in my absence, for I had had but few 
letters, and what of note had happened at Bams. 

“ Ay, John/' he said, “ I’m an old man. I fear that my 
life here will be short. I scarce can get outside without 
Tam Todd to lean on, and I have little sleep o' nights. And, 
John, I could wish that you would bide at home now, for 
I like to see you beside me, and you’ll have learned all 
the folk of Glasgow have to teach you. I once wished you 
a soldier, but I am glad now that I let the thing blow by, 
for I would have cared little to have you coming here but 
once in the six months, for a flying visit.” 

“ Nay, uncle,” said my cousin, “ you do not put the 
matter fairly. For myself, I believe there is none busier in 
Scotland than I, but, Gad, I have always time to slip home 
to Eaglesham for a day or more. But my father would 
care little though he never saw me but once in the year, 
for each time I go back I get a long sermon on my conduct, 
with my expenses for the year as a text, till I am fairly 
driven out of the house for peace.” 

At this my father laughed. " Ay, ay,” said he, " that’s 
like my brother Gilbert. He was always a hard man at 
the siller. Man, I mind when we were both the terrors o’ 
the place, but all the while not a thing would he do, if it 
meant the loss of a bodle. Pity but I had taken after him 
in that, and John would have been better supplied to-day.” 

“ Oh,” I answered, “ I have all I need and more.” 

Hereupon my cousin spoke with a sneer in his voice. 


48 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ A groat is enough for a scholar, but the soldier must have 
a crown. Your scholar, as doubtless John can tell, is con¬ 
tent if he have a sad-coloured suit, some musty books, and 
a stoup of bad wine ; but your fine gentleman must have 
his horses and servants, and dress himself like his quality 
for all the maids to stare at, and have plenty of loose silver 
to fling to the gaping crowd ; and he is a poor fellow indeed 
if he do not eat and drink the best that each tavern can 
give. As for me, I would as soon be a clown in the fields as 
a scholar, with apologies to my cousin " ; and he made me 
another of his mocking bows. 

I answered as gently as I could that gentrice did not 
consist in daintiness of eating and drinking or boisterous 
display, and that in my opinion nothing gave so fine a 
flavour to gentility as a tincture of letters ; but my father 
changed the conversation by asking Gilbert what he had 
been after that day. 

“ 'Faith, it would be hard to say," said he. “ I got a 
gun from that long-legged, sour-faced groom and went up 
the big hill above the trees to have a shot at something. I 
killed a couple of hares and sprung an old muirfowl; but 
the day grew warm and I thought that the wood would 
make a pleasant shade, so I e’en turned my steps there and 
went to sleep below a great oak, and dreamed that I ran a 
man through the bowels for challenging my courage. It 
was an ill-omened dream, and I expected to meet with some 
mishap to account for it ere I got back, but I saw nothing 
except a lovely girl plucking primroses by the water side. 
Zounds, Jock, what a fool you must be never to have found 
out this beauty ! She had hair like gold and eyes like 
sapphires. I've seen many a good-looking wench, but never 
one like her.” 

“ And what did you do ? " I asked, with my heart 
beating wildly. 

“ Do ? " he laughed. “ Your scholar would have passed 
in silence and written odes to her as Venus or Helen for 
months ; whereas I took off my bonnet and made haste to 
enter into polite conversation. But this girl would have 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


49 


none of me ; she’s a rose, I warrant, with a pretty setting 
of thorns. She tripped away, and when I made to follow 
her, became Madame Fine-airs at once, and declared that 
her servants were within easy reach, so I had better have a 
care of my conduct.” 

My father shot a sharp glance at me, and addressed my 
cousin. ” The maid would be Marjory Veitch, old Sir 
John’s daughter, at Dawyck. He, poor man, has gone to 
his account, and her brother is abroad, so the poor girl is 
lonely enough in that great house. John and she have been 
friends from the time they were children. She has come 
here, too, and a pretty, modest lass she is, though she 
favours her mother rather than her father’s folk.” 

At this intelligence my cousin whistled long and low. 
“ So, so,” said he, “ my scholar has an eye in his head, has 
he ? And Dawyck is not far off, and—well, no wonder you 
do not care for the military profession. Though, let me 
tell you, it is as well for the course of true love that there 
are few cavaliers in this countryside, else Mistress Marjory 
might have higher notions.” 

I answered nothing, for, though I loved Marjory well, 
and thought that she loved me, I had never spoken to her 
on the matter ; for from childhood we had been comrades 
and friends. So I did not care to reply on a matter which 
I regarded as so delicate and uncertain. 

My cousin was a man who grew sorely vexed by receiving 
no answer from the object of his wit; and, perhaps on 
this account, he went further than he meant in his irrita¬ 
tion. “ Nay, John,” he went on, “ you’re but a sorry fel¬ 
low at the best, with your tags from the Latin, and your 
poor spirit. I am one of the meanest of His Majesty’s 
soldiers, but I can outride you, I can beat you at sword¬ 
play, at mark-shooting, at all manly sports. I can hold my 
head before the highest in the land ; I can make the vulgar 
bow before me to the ground. There are no parts of a 
gentleman’s equipment in which I am not your better.” 

Now, had we been alone, I should not have scrupled to 
fling the lie in his teeth, and offer to settle the matter on 


50 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

the spot. But I did not wish to excite my father in his 
feeble health, so I made no reply beyond saying that events 
would show the better man. My father, however, took it 
upon himself to defend me. “ Peace, Gilbert,” he said. 
“ I will not have my son spoken thus of in my own house. 
He has as much spirit as you. I’ll warrant, though he is 
less fond of blowing his own trumpet/' I saw with annoy¬ 
ance that my father plainly thought my conduct cowardly, 
and would have been better pleased had I struck my cousin 
then and there. But I knew how cruelly excited he would 
be by the matter, and, in his weakness, I feared the result. 
Also, the man was our guest, and my cousin. 

When we rose from supper I assisted my father in walking 
to his chair by the fire ; for, though the weather was mild 
and spring-like, his blood was so impoverished that he felt 
the cold keenly. Then my cousin and myself strolled out 
of doors to the green lawn, below which Tweed ran low and 
silvery clear. I felt anger against him, yet not so much as 
I would have felt towards another man, had he used the 
same words ; for I knew Gilbert to be of an absurd boasting 
nature, which made him do more evil than he had in his 
heart. Still my honour, or pride (call it what you please), 
was wounded, and I cast about me for some way to heal it. 

“ Gilbert,” I said, " we have both done much work to¬ 
day, so we are both about equally wearied.” 

“ Maybe,” said he. 

" But your horse is fresh, and a good one, as I know ; 
and you are a good horseman, as you say yourself. You 
had much to say about my poor horsemanship at supper. 
Will you try a race with me ? ” 

He looked at me scornfully for a minute. " Nay, there 
is little honour to be got from that. You know the ground, 
and your horse, for all I know, may be swifter than mine. 
It was not of horses I spoke, but of the riders.” 

” In the race which I offer you,” I answered, “ we will 
both start fair. Do you see yon rift in the hill beyond 
Scrape ? It is the Red Syke, a long dark hole in the side 
of the hill. I have never ridden there, for the ground is 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


5'i 


rough and boggy, and I have never heard of a horseman 
there since Montrose’s rising. Will you dare to ride with 
me to yonder place and back ? " 

At this my cousin’s face changed a little, for he had no 
liking for breaking his neck on the wild hills. And now, 
when I look back on the proposal, it seems a mad, fool¬ 
hardy one in very truth. But then we were both young and 
spirited, and reckless of our lives. 

“ Mount and ride," said he. “ I’ll be there and back 
before you are half-road, unless, indeed, I have to carry 
you home." 

Together we went round to the stables, and I saddled a 
black horse of my father’s, for Maisie had already travelled 
far that day. The Weasel, we called him, for he was long 
and thin in the flanks, with a small head, and a pointed 
muzzle. He was viciously ill-tempered, and would allow no 
groom to saddle him ; but before I had gone to Glasgow I 
had mounted and ridden him bareback up and down the 
channel of Tweed till he was dead-beat, and I half drowned 
and shaken almost to pieces. Ever since this escapade he 
had allowed me to do what I liked with him ; and, though 
I did not find him as pleasant to ride as the incomparable 
Maisie, yet I knew his great strength and fleetness. My 
cousin’s horse was a good cavalry charger, strong, but, as I 
thought, somewhat too heavy in the legs for great endurance. 

We mounted and rode together out among the trees to 
the fields which bordered on the hills. I was sore in the 
back when I started, but, after the first half-mile, my 
sprightliness returned, and I felt fit to ride over Broad Law. 
My cousin was in an ill mood, for the sport was not to his 
taste, though he felt bound in honour to justify his words. 

The spur of Scrape, which we came to, was called, by the 
country people, the Deid Wife, for there an Irish woman, 
the wife of one of Montrose’s camp followers, had been 
killed by the folk of the place after the rout at Philiphaugh. 
We had much ado to keep our horses from slipping back, 
for the loose stones which covered the face of the hill gave 
a feeble foothold. The Weasel took the brae like a deer. 


52 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

but my cousin’s heavy horse laboured and panted sorely 
before it reached the top. Before us stretched the long 
upland moors, boggy, and cleft with deep ravines, with 
Scrape on the right, and straight in front, six miles beyond, 
the great broad crest of Dollar Law. Here we separated, 
my cousin riding forward, while I thought the road to the 
left would be the surer. Clear before us lay the Red Syke, 
an ugly gash, into which the setting sun was beginning to 
cast his beams. 

And now I found myself in a most perilous position. The 
Weasel’s feet were light and touchy, and he stumbled among 
the stones and tall heather till I had sore work to keep my 
seat. My cousin’s horse was of a heavier make, and I could 
see it galloping gallantly over the broken ground. I cheered 
my steed with words, and patted his neck, and kept a tight 
hand on the rein. Sometimes we slipped among the shingle, 
and sometimes stumbled over rocks half hid in brackens. 
Then we passed into a surer place among short, burned 
heather. The dry twigs gave forth a strange creaking 
sound as the horse’s feet trod on them, and puffs of grey 
dust and ashes, the sign of the burning, rose at every step. 
Then, beyond this, we went to a long stretch of crisp moun¬ 
tain grass, pleasant for both horse and rider. We splashed 
through little tumbling bums, and waded through pools 
left by the spring rains. But, of a sudden, the ground grew 
softer, and even the Weasel's light weight could not pass 
in safety. At one time, indeed, I reined him back just on 
the brink of a treacherous well-eye, from which neither of 
us would have returned. I cast a glance at my cousin, 
who was still ahead ; his heavy charger was floundering 
wearily, and he lashed it as if his life were at stake. Then 
we passed the green bog and came to a great peat-moss, 
full of hags, where the shepherds had been casting peats. 
Here the riding was more difficult, for the holes whence the 
peats had come were often some five feet deep, and it was 
no easy matter to get a horse out of that treacherous black 
mud. The Weasel did gallantly, and only once did I dis¬ 
mount, when his hind feet were too deeply sunk to permit 


COUSINLY AFFECTION 


53 


him to leap. Beyond me I saw my cousin, riding swiftly, 
for the middle of the moss, as it chanced, was the firmest 
and evenest place. We were now scarce a hundred yards 
from the ravine of the Red Syke, and, even as I looked, I 
saw him reach it, rest a second to give his horse breathing- 
space, and then turn on his homeward way. 

I came to the place a minute after, and having com¬ 
passion on my brave horse, I dismounted, and eased him of 
my weight for a little. Then I got on his back again and 
set off. Gilbert I saw before me, riding, as I thought, in 
the worst part, and with a fury that must tell sooner or 
later on his heavy steed. I had scarce been a moment in 
the saddle, when, so strange are the ways of horses, the 
Weasel became aware, for the first time, of the other in 
front. Before, it had been a toil for him, now it became a 
pleasure, a race, which it lay with his honour to win. He 
cocked up his wicked black ears, put down his head, and 
I felt the long legs gathering beneath me. I cried aloud 
with delight, for now I knew that no horse in Tweeddale 
could hope to match him when the mood was on him. He 
flew over the hags as if he had been in a paddock ; he leaped 
among the hard parts of the green bog, from tussock to 
tussock, as skilfully as if he had known nothing but mosses 
all his days. We came up with Gilbert at the edge of the 
rough ground, lashing on his horse, with his face-flushed 
and his teeth set. We passed him like the wind, and were 
galloping among the rocks and brackens, while he was pain¬ 
fully picking his steps. A merciful Providence must have 
watched over the Weasel’s path that day, for never horse 
ran so recklessly. Among slippery boulders and cruel 
jagged rocks and treacherous shingle he ran like a hare. I 
grew exultant, laughed, and patted his neck. The sun was 
setting behind us, and we rode in a broad patch of yellow 
light. In a trice we were on the brow of the Deid Wife. 
Down we went, slipping yards at a time, now doubling 
along the side ; sometimes I was almost over the horse’s 
head, sometimes all but off at the tail; there was never, 
since the two daft lairds rode Horsehope Craig, such a mad- 


54 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

cap ride. I scarce know how I reached the foot in safety : 
but reach it I did, and rode merrily among the trees till I 
came to the green meadowlands about the house of Bams. 
Here I dismounted and waited for my cousin, for I did not 
care to have the serving-men laugh at him riding in after me. 

I waited a good half-hour before he appeared. A sorry 
sight he presented. His breeches and jerkin had more than 
one rent in them ; his hat was gone ; and his face was 
flushed almost crimson with effort. His horse had bleed¬ 
ing knees, and its shoulders shook pitifully. 

“ Pardon me, Gilbert," I said in a fit of repentance ; “ it 
was a foolish thing in me to lead you such a senseless road. 
I might have known that your horse was too heavy for the 
work. It was no fault of yours that you did not come 
home before me. I trust that we may forget our quarrels, 
and live in friendship, as kinsmen should." 

“ Friendship be damned," he cried in a mighty rage. 


CHAPTER VI 

HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAMEAND WAS 
CHECKMATED 

That night I was too wearied and sore in body to sleep. 
My mind also was troubled, for I had made an enemy of my 
cousin, who, as I knew, was not of a nature to forgive readily. 
His words about Marjory had put me into a ferment of 
anxiety. Here was my love, bound to me by no promise, 
at the mercy of all the gallants of the countryside. Who 
was I, to call myself her lover, when, as yet, no word of 
love had passed between us ? Yet, in my inmost heart, I 
knew that I might get the promise any day I chose. Then 
thoughts of my cousin came to trouble me. I feared him 
no more than a fly in matters betwixt man and man ; but 
might he not take it into his head to make love to the mistress 
of Dawyck ? and all maids dearly love a dashing cavalier. 


HOW MASTER GILBERT WAS CHECKMATED 55 

At length, after much stormy indecision, I made up my 
mind. I would ride to Dawyck next morn and get my 
lady’s word, and so forestall Gilbert, or any other. 

I woke about six o’clock; and, looking out from the 
narrow window, for Bams had been built three hundred 
years before, I saw that the sky was cloudless and blue, 
and the morning as clear as could be seen in spring. I 
hastily dressed, and, getting some slight breakfast from Jean 
Morran, saddled Maisie, who was now as active as ever, and 
rode out among the trees. I feared to come to Dawyck 
too early, so I forded Tweed below the island, and took the 
road up the farther bank by Lyne and Stobo. All the 
world was bright; an early lark sang high in the heaven ; 
merles and thrushes were making fine music among the low 
trees by the river. The haze was lifting off the great Manor 
Water hills ; the Red Syke, the scene of the last night’s 
escapade, looked very distant in the morning light; and far 
beyond all Dollar Law and the high hills about Manorhead 
were flushed with sunlight on their broad foreheads. A 
great gladness rose in me when I looked at the hills, for 
they were the hills of my own country ; I knew every glen 
and corrie, every water and little bum. Before me the 
Lyne Water hills were green as grass with no patch of 
heather, and to the left, the mighty form of Scrape, half 
clothed in forest, lay quiet and sunlit. I know of no fairer 
sight on earth ; and this I say, after having travelled in 
other countries, and seen something of their wonders ; for, 
to my mind, there is a grace, a wild loveliness in Tweed- 
side, like a flower-garden on the edge of a moorland, which 
is wholly its own. 

I crossed Lyne Water by the new bridge, just finished in 
the year before, and entered the wood of Dawyck. For this 
great forest stretches on both sides of Tweed, though it is 
greater on the side on which stands the house. In the place 
where I rode it was thinner, and the trees smaller, and 
indeed, around the little village of Stobo there lies an open 
part of some fields’ width. At the little inn there, I had a 
morning’s draught of ale, for I was somewhat cold with 


56 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

riding in the spring air. Then I forded Tweed at a place 
called the Cow Ford, and, riding through a wide avenue of 
lime-trees, came in sight of the grey towers of Dawyck. 

I kept well round to the back, for I did not care that the 
serving-folk should see me and spread tales over all the 
countryside. Iknew that Marjory’s window looked sharp 
down on a patch of green lawn, bordered by lime-trees, so 
I rode into the shadow and dismounted. I whistled thrice 
in a way which I had, and which Marjory had learned to 
know long before, when we were children, and I used to 
come and beguile her out for long trampings among the 
hills. To-day it had no effect, for the singing of birds 
drowned my notes, so I had nothing left but to throw bits 
of bark against her window. This rude expedient met with 
more success than it deserved, for in a minute I saw her 
face behind the glass. She smiled gladly when she saw me, 
and disappeared, only to appear again in the little door 
beside the lilacs. She had no hat, so her bright hair hung 
loose over her neck and was blown about by the morning 
winds. Her cheeks were pink and white, like apple-blossom, 
and her lithe form was clad in a dress of blue velvet, plainly 
adorned as for a country maiden. A spray of lilac was in 
her breast, and she carried a bunch of sweet-smelling stuff 
in her hands. 

She came gladly towards me, her eyes dancing with 
pleasure. “ How soon you have returned ! And how 
brave you look,” said she, with many more pretty and 
undeserved compliments. 

“ Ay, Marjory,” I answered, “ I have come back to Tweed- 
dale, for I have had enough of Glasgow College and books, 
and I was wearying for the hills and Tweed and a sight of 
your face. There are no maidens who come near to you 
with all their finery. You are as fair as the spring lilies 
in the garden at Bams.” 

” Oh, John,” she laughed, “ where did you learn to pay 
fine compliments ? You will soon be as expert at the trade 
as any of them. I met a man yesterday in the woods who 
spoke like you, though with a more practised air; but I 


•HOW MASTER GILBERT WAS CHECKMATED 57 

bade him keep his fine words for his fine ladies, for they 
suited ill with the hills and a plain country maid.” 

At this, I must suppose that my brows grew dark, for 
she went on laughingly. 

“ Nay, you are not jealous ? It ill becomes a scholar and 
a philosopher as you are, Master John, to think so much of 
an idle word. Confess, sir, that you are jealous. Why, you 
are as bad as a lady in a play.” 

I could not make out her mood, which was a new one to 
me—a mocking pleasant raillery, which I took for the 
rightful punishment of my past follies. 

“I am not jealous,” I said, “ for jealousy is a feeling 
which needs an object ere it can exist. No man may be 
jealous, unless he has something to be jealous about.” 

“ John, John,” she cried, and shook her head prettily, 
" you are incorrigible. I had thought you had learned 
manners in the town, and behold, you are worse than when 
you went away. You come here, and your first word to me 
is that I am nothing.” 

“ God knows,” I said, “ I would fain be jealous, and 

yet-” I became awkward and nervous, for I felt that 

my mission was not prospering, and that I was becoming 
entangled in a maze of meaningless speech. The shortest 
and plainest way is still the best in love as in all things. 

But I was not to be let off, and she finished my sentence 
for me. " If only you could find a worthy object for your 
feeling, you mean,” she said. “ Very well, sir, since I am 
so little valued in your eyes, we will speak no more on the 
matter.” 

“ Marjory,” I said, coming to the matter at once, " you 
and I have been old comrades. We have fished and walked 
together, we have climbed the hills and ridden in the 
meadows. I have done your bidding for many years.” 

“ True, John,” she said with an accent of grudging remin¬ 
iscence, “ you have dragged me into many a pretty pickle. 
I have torn my dress on rough rocks and soaked my shoes 
in bogs, all in your company. Surely we have had a brave 
time together.” 



58 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ You met a man in the wood yesterday who would fain 
have made love to you. That man was my cousin Gilbert/' 

“Oh," she replied in a tone of mock solemnity and 
amused wonder, for I had blurted out my last words like 
the last dying confession of some prisoner. “ Verily you 
are honoured in your cousinship, John." 

“ It is against him and such as him that I would protect 
you," I said. 

“ Nay," she cried, with an affected remonstrance. “ I 
will have no fighting between cousins on my account. I 
will even defend myself, as Alison did when the miller made 
love to her." 

“ O Marjory," I burst out, “will you not give me this 
right to defend you ? We have been old companions, but 
it was only yesterday that I knew how dearly I loved you. 
I have had more cares since yester-night than ever in my 
life. We have been comrades in childhood ; let us be 
comrades on the rough paths of the world." 

I spoke earnestly, and her face, which had been filled with 
mockery, changed gently to something akin to tenderness. 

“ How little you know of women ! " she cried. “ I have 
loved you for years, thinking of you at all times, and now 
you come to-day, speaking as if you had scarce seen me 
before. Surely I will bear you company in life, as I have 
been your comrade at its beginning.” 

What followed I need scarce tell, since it is but part of 
the old comedy of life, which our grandfathers and grand¬ 
mothers played before us, and mayhap our grandchildren 
will be playing even now when our back is turned. Under 
the spring sky among the lilies we plighted our troth for the 
years, and I entered from careless youth into the dim and 
resolute region of manhood. 

With a great joy in my heart I rode home. I took the 
high way over the shoulder of Scrape, for I knew that few 
folk ever went that road, and I wished to be alone. The 
birds were singing, the fresh clean air was blowing on my 
face, and the primroses and wind-flowers made a gay carpet 
under my horse’s feet. All the earth seemed to partake in 


HOW MASTER GILBERT WAS CHECKMATED 59 


my gladness. It was a good world, I thought, full of true 
hearts, fair faces, and much good ; and though I have seen 
much wickedness and sorrow in my day, I am still of the 
same way of thinking. It is a brave world ; a royal world 
for brave-hearted men. 

When I came to Bams I found that my cousin had gone 
out an hour since and left my father greatly wondering at 
my absence. He sat in the chair by the fireplace, looking 
more withered and old than I had ever seen him. My 
heart smote me for not staying at his side, and so I sat 
down by him and told him many things of my doings in 
Glasgow, and how I desired above all things to see the world, 
having had my fill of books and colleges. Then I told him 
what he had long guessed, of my love for Marjory Veitch 
and the promise which she had given me. He heard me in 
silence, but when he spoke, his words were cheerful, for 
he had long liked the lass. He made no refusal, too, to the 
rest of my plans. “You shall go and see the world, John/* 
he said, “ and take my blessing with you. It ill becomes a 
young mettlesome lad in these stirring times to lounge at 
home, when he might be wearing a steel breastplate in the 
King’s Guards, or trying the manners of twenty nations. 
Though I could wish you to bide at home, for I am an old 
broken man with few pleasures, and I love the sight of your 
face.’’ 

“ Nay, I will never leave you,” I said, “ an you wish it. 
I am young yet and a boy's road is a long road. Time 
enough for all." 

After this I went out to see if the Weasel had come to 
any mishap in the last night’s ride. I found him as stout 
as ever, so I saddled him and rode away by the green 
haughlands up the valley of the Manor, for I longed for 
motion and air to relieve my spirit: and coming home in 
the afternoon, I found my cousin returned and sitting with 
my father in the dining-hall. 

He glanced sharply at me when I entered, and I saw by 
his looks that he was in no good temper. His heavy face 
was flushed and his shaggy eyebrows were lowered more 
than their wont. 


6o 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Where have you been, Gilbert ? ” I asked. ^ “ I found 
you gone when I came back in the morning. 

“ I took my horse down to Peebles to the farrier. Its 
knees were sorely hurt last night on your infernal hills/’ 

Now I knew that this was a lie, for I had looked at his 
horse before I went out in the morning, and its wounds were 
so slight that it would have been mere folly to take him to 
a farrier ; and Gilbert, I well knew, was not the man to be 
in error where horses were concerned. So I judged that he 
had ridden in the contrary direction, and gone to Dawyck, 
and, as I inferred from his sour looks, met with no good 
reception there. I could afford to be generous ; I felt a 
sort of half-pity for his discomfiture, and forbore to ask 
him any further questions. 

We sat down to supper, he and I and my father, in a 
sober frame of mind. I was full of my own thoughts, which 
were of the pleasantest; my cousin was plainly angry with 
something or other ; and my father, in his weakness dimly 
perceiving that all was not right, set himself to mend 
matters by engaging him in talk. 

“ You’re a good shot with the musket, they tell me, 
Gibbie,” he said, using the old name which he had called 
him by when he first came to Barns as a boy, “ and I was 
thinking that it would be a rare ploy for you and John to 
go down the water to Traquair, where Captain Keith’s horse 
are lying. He is an old friend of mine, and would be blithe 
to see any of my kin. They tell me he has great trials of 
skill in all exercises, and that he has gathered half the 
gentry in the place about him.” 

" John,” said my cousin in a scornful voice, “ John is too 
busily employed at Dawyck to care much for anything else. 
A flighty maid is a sore burden on any man.” 

“ I would have you learn, Master Gilbert,” I said angrily, 
“ to speak in a better way of myself and my friends. You 
may be a very great gentleman elsewhere, but you seem to 
leave your gentility behind when you come here.” 

Now my cousin and I were of such opposite natures that 
I took most things seriously, while he found matter for a 


HOW MASTER GILBERT WAS CHECKMATED 61 

jest in all—yet not in full good-nature, but with a touch of 
acrid satire. 

“ Even a barn-door cock will defend his own roost. How 
one sees the truth of proverbs ! " 

And then he added that which I will not set down, but 
which brought my father and myself to our feet with flashing 
eyes and quivering lips. I would have spoken, but my 
father motioned me to be silent. 

“ Gilbert," he said, his voice shaking with age and anger, 
" you will leave this house the mom. I will have no 
scoundrelly fellow of your kidney here. You are no true 
nephew of mine, and God pity the father that begat you." 

My cousin smiled disdainfully and rose from his chair. 
" Surely I will go and at once when my hospitable uncle 
bids me. The entertainment in this damned hole is not so 
good as to keep me long. As for you. Cousin John," and he 
eyed me malignantly, “ you and I will meet some day, 
where there are no dotards and wenches to come between 
us. Then I promise you some sport. Till then, farewell. 
I will down to Peebles to-night and trouble you no more." 
With a wave of his hand he was gone, and five minutes later 
we heard his horse’s hooves clatter over the stones of the 
yard. 

When he was gone his conduct came back to my father 
with a rush, and he fell to upbraiding himself for his breach 
of hospitality and family honour. He would have me call 
Gilbert back, and when I showed him how futile it was, fell 
into low spirits and repented in great bitterness. 

Now the worst of this day’s business remains to be told. 
For when I looked at my father some time after I found him 
sunk in his chair with his face as pale as death With the 
help of Jean Morran and Tam Todd I got him to bed, from 
which he never rose, but passed peacefully away in the 
fear of God two days later. The heat into which he had 
been thrown was the direct cause, and though I could not 
very well lay the thing to my cousin’s charge when the 
man was already so far down the vale of years, yet in my 


62 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

heart I set it against him. Indeed from this day I date my 
antagonism to the man, which before had been a mere 
boyish rivalry. 

I stayed with my father to the end. Just before he died 
he bade me come near and gave me his blessing, bidding me 
be a better gentleman than he had been. We did not bury 
him in the Kirk of Lyne, for he had always said he never 
could abide to lie within walls, but on a green flat above 
Tweed, where the echo of the river and the crying of moor- 
birds are never absent from his grave. 

CHAPTER VII 

THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER 
RETURNED FROM THE WARS 

Of my doings for some months after my father’s death I 
must tell hastily. I fell heir to the lands of Bams, and 
being of age entered at once into my possession. The place 
remained the same as in my father’s time, the same servants, 
and the same ways about the house. I lived simply as I 
had always lived, spending my days in seeing to the land, 
in field sports, and some little study, for I had not alto¬ 
gether forsaken the Muses. But all the time I felt as one 
who is kept at home against his will, being conscious of a 
restlessness and an inclination to travel which was new to 
me, but which I doubt not is common to all young men at 
this time of life. I talked much with Tam Todd of the 
lands which he had visited, and heard of the Dutch towns 
with their strange shipping, their canals and orderly houses, 
and of the rough Norlanders, clad in the skins of wild 
animals, who came down to the Swedish markets to trade ; 
of the soldiery of Germany and France and the Scots who 
had gone over there to push their fortunes with their 
swords; and what I loved best, of the salt sea with its 
boundless waste of waters and wild tales of shipwreck. 
Fomerly I had been wont often to bid Tam sharply to hold 
his peace when he entered on one of his interminable narra- 


THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES 


63 

tions ; but now I sat and drank in every word like a thirsty 
man. It was the winter-time, when the roads were often 
snowed up and all the folk of the place gathered in the 
great kitchen at nights round the fire ; so it was the time 
for stories and we had our fill of them. 

One blustering day, the first Monday, I think, after the 
New Year, when the ice was beginning to melt from the 
bums and a wet, cold wind from the north-west was blow¬ 
ing, I rode down to Peebles to settle some matters about 
money with Saunders Blackett, who had managed my 
father’s affairs and was now intrusted with mine. All 
things were done to my satisfaction ; so bethinking myself 
that the way to Bams was cold and long and that it was 
yet early in the afternoon, being scarce four o’clock, I found 
myself thinking pleasantly of the warm inn-parlour of the 
Pegasus, so thither I went. 

The Pegasus or “ Peg " Inn stands at the comer of th* 
Northgate and the High Street, a black-gabled building,once 
the town-house of the Govans of Cardrona, and still retain¬ 
ing marks of its gentility in the arms carved above the door. 
A great sign flapped in the wind, bearing on a white ground 
a gorgeous representation of a winged horse soaring through 
clouds. The landlord at this time was one Horsbrock, a 
portly, well-looking man, who claimed to be kin to the 
Horsbrocks of that ilk and held his chin two inches higher 
in consequence. The place was famed in all the country 
round for good wine and comfort. 

I stabled my horse and, bidding the host bring me a bottle 
of Rhenish (so fine a thing it is to have succeeded to lands 
and money), I went into the low-ceilinged room where the 
company sat. It was panelled in a darkish wood, and hung* 
round with old weapons, halberds and falchions and what 
not, which glimmered brightly in the firelight. A narrow 
window gave it light, but now it sufficed only to show the 
grey winter dusk coming swiftly on. Around the fire sat 
some few of the men of Peebles, warming themselves and 
discussing the landlord's ale and the characters of their 
neighbours. 


64 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

They rose to give me welcome when I entered, for my 
name and family were well known in the countryside. 

“ It’s awfu’ weather for man and beast, Laird,” said an 
old man with a bent back, but still hale and hearty in the 
face. “ A snawy winter I can abide, and a wet yin, but 
drizzlin’, dreepin’, seepin’ weather wi’ a wind that taks the 
heart out o’ ye is mair than my patience can stand.” 

“ You have little need to speak, you folk,” I said, “ living 
in a well-paved town with stones beneath your feet and 
nothing more to do than go round a street comer all day. 
Up at Bams, with Tweed swirling in at the yard gate, and 
the stables flowing like a linn, and the wind playing can- 
trips day and night in and out of the windows, you might 
talk.” 

“ Ay, but, good sir,” put in a thin voice which came from 
a little man I had seen at the bowling-green, “ ye may thank 
the Lord for a roof abune your heids and dry claes to put 
on, when sae many godly folks are hiding like pelicans in 
the wilderness among the high hills and deep mosses. I 
bless the Lord that my faither, that sant o’ the Kirk, is 
not living in thae evil times. He was a man o’ a truly 
great spirit, and had he been alive, I’se warrant he wad hae 
been awa to join them. He was aye strong on his con¬ 
science. ‘ John Look-up,* so the godless called him. ‘ John 
Look-up,’ said my mother, * yell never be pleased till we’re 
a’ joltin’ in a cairt to the Grassmarket o’ Edinburgh. And a 
braw sicht ye’ll be, hanging there like a hoodie-craw wi’ a’ 
your bairns aside ye.' Ay, these were often her words, for 
she had a sarcastic tongue.” 

“ Jock Look-up, my man,” said another, “ I kenned your 
faither a’ his days, and he was na the man to hang. He 
lookit up and he lookit a’ ways. He was yin whae could 
baith watch and pray. Gin ye were mair like him, ye wad 
be a mair thrivin’ man.” 

“ Aboot the hill-folk,” said the old man who had first 
spoken, drinking his ale and turning up the measure to see 
that no more was left, “ did ye ever hear o’ my son Francie 
and what happened to him when he gaed awa to Moffat wi’ 


THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES 65 

W ? He gaed ower by Traquair and keepit the road till he 
got to Moffat, for he had a horse that wasna ower sure o* 
its feet on the hills. But when he had it a’ sellt, whae does 
he meet in wi’ but Wull Hislop the travelling packman, 
whae’s sair needing a beast. So Francie sells him his horse 
and comes aff hame walking ower the muirs. He gaed up 
Moffat Water and ower the muckle hill they ca’ Corrie- 
fragauns, and got on nane sae bad till he cam to the awfu’ 
craigs abune Loch Skene. He was walking briskly, think¬ 
ing o' hame and the siller in his pouch and how he wad win 
to Peebles that nicht, when he saw afore him the awfu’est 
sicht that ever he had seen. It was a man o' maybe the 
same heicht as himsel, wi’ a heid o' red hair, and nae claes 
to speak o’, but just a kind o’ clout about his middle. He 
began to speak in an outlandish voice and Francie kenned 
at yince that he maun be yin o’ thae Hieland deevils brocht 
doun to hunt up the Whigs. He was for Francie’s money, 
and he oot wi’ a big knife and flashed it up and doun. But 
this was no to Francie’s liking. ‘ Put that doun, ye ill- 
looking deevil/ says he, ‘ yell find I’m nane o’ your hill- 
folk, but an honest man frae Peebles wi’ a nieve as hard as 
your heid’s saft, and if ye dinna let me by, I’ll put ye in 
the loch as sure as my name’s Francie Trummle.’ The 
body understood him brawly, and wi’ a grunt slunk aff 
among the heather, and Francie had nae mair bother wi’ 
him. But oh, it’s an awfu' thing to think o' men o' your 
ain blood hunted and killed wi’ thae foreign craturs. It 
maks me half-mindit to turn Whig mysel.” 

“ Dinna fash yoursel, Maister Trummle,” said a younger 
man, a farmer by his looks, “ ye’re better bidin’ in peace 
and quiet at hame. The Lord never meant folk to gang 
among hills and peat-bogs, unless after sheep. It’s clean 
against the order o’ things. But there’s yae thing that 
reconciles me to this Whig-hunting. They’re maistly wast- 
country folk, and wast-country folk are an ill lot, aye 
shoving their nebs where they’re no wantit. There’s no 
mony Whigs in Tweeddale. Na, na, they’re ower canny.” 

Master Turnbull made as if he would have answered, 

c 


66 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

when a clatter of feet was heard in the passage, and the 
door opened. Two men entered, one a great swarthy fel¬ 
low well known for his poaching escapades when the salmon 
came up the water, and the other, Peter Crustcrackit, the 
tailor. They did not>enter in company, for Peter swaggered 
in with as gallant an air as two bent legs and a small body 
could permit, while the other slunk in with a half-apolo¬ 
getic look, glancing keenly round to see who were the other 
occupants of the room. 

“ The ‘ Peg’ is honoured with your company to-night, I 
see,” said Peter, making a bow to me. “ ’Tis the finest 
gathering that I remember: the Laird o’ Bams, worthy 
Maister Trumbull, myself, and my honoured freend, Maister 
Simon Doolittle." 

The black fisher lifted his face from the ale which the 
landlord had brought. “ Your guid health, gentlemen. 
I’m prood o' your company, though I’m no just fit for’t, 
since I’m no half an 'oor oot o’ the Dookit Pool." 

All eyes were turned to the speaker, and we saw that his 
clothes hung limp and wet. 

“ And pray, how did you get there, Maister Doolittle ? 
Was’t by the working o’ Providence, or the wiles o’ sinfu’ 
man ? " 

“ A mixture o’ baith. I took a bit daunder up Tweed 
to the Castle Rock to see how the water was rinnin’. It’s 
been raither grumly for fishin’ o’ late. Yea’ ken the rocks 
that they’re no exactly the sort o’ place that a man wad 
choose for dancin’ a reel in tackety boots. Well, I was 
admiring the works o' God as manifested in a big, deep, 
swirlin’ hole, when afore ever I kenned I was admirin' the 
hole frae the middle o’t. I was gey near chokit wi’ Tweed 
water, but I wabbled a bit, and syne grippit a birk and held 
on." 

There was a pause and he took a draught of ale. 

“ Weel, I roared as loud as I could, and the auld mnt 
whae bides i’ the Castle heard me. He cam doun and askit 
me what was wrang. ‘ Wrang,’ says I. ' If ye dinna ca’ 
ten feet o’ water and you no able to soom, wrang, I just 


THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES 67 

wis ye were here yoursel.’ So he gangs cannily back and 
brings anither man to look at me; and the twae thocht 
for a while, and then each grippit an airm and after a gey 
wammlnT I got oot. I was angry at their delay, for I 
couldna hae held on muckle langer, so I kickit them baith 
an’ cam aff here. I've muckle need o’ yill, for I feel as if 
I had eaten ten pund o’ snaw.” 

“ Come nearer the fire, Simon,” said one. " Ye’re a 
muckle tried man.” 

" I’m a’ that,” said the brown-faced poacher, and re¬ 
lapsed into silence. 

The lights were now lit in the streets of Peebles, as we 
could see by the glimmer through the windows ; but in our 
room no lamp was needed, for the bright firelight was 
sufficient for a man to read a little book by. The great 
shadows danced on the wall, bent and crooked into a thou¬ 
sand phantasies ; and the men by the fire nodded and spoke 
little. Then the old man Turnbull began an argument with 
the tailor about some clothes in which he said he had been 
cheated ; and Peter Crustcrackit, never a quiet-tempered 
man, was rejoining with vigour. I heard only fragments of 
their talk, being taken up in dreaming of my future course, 
and when I should go to see the world. 

The mild-mannered man, him they called John Look-up, 
was sleeping in his chair, and his jug of ale which he had 
emptied hung limply in his hand. In a little it fell to the 
floor and rolled beneath his chair; but the sleeper never 
stirred. The poacher sat shrouded in vapour, which the 
heat of the fire had brought out of his wet garments, and a 
mingled smell of damo cloth and burning wood filled the 
room. The discordant voices of the tailor and his antago¬ 
nist rose and fell, now sinking to a mumbled whisper, and 
now rising to sharp recrimination. By and by they came 
to an end of their dispute, and silence reigned undisturbed ; 
and I verily believe that in five minutes we should all have 
been sound asleep, had not something occurred to rouse us. 

This was no less than the entrance of another guest. 
The door was flung open and a man entered, swaggering 


68 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

with a great air and bearing into the slumbrous place a 
breath of the outer world. He was the finest man I had 
ever seen, two inches and more taller than myself, who am 
not short, and clean made as a greyhound. His face was 
tanned a deep brown, and bare save for a yellow mous¬ 
tache on his upper lip. His hair hung long and fine over his 
shoulders, setting off the erect poise of his head. He had 
removed his cloak and hat, and showed a dress of the height 
of fashion ; his cravat was of delicate foreign lace and the 
sash around his middle of the finest silk. But what I 
marked especially were his features, the thin, straight nose, 
the well-bred chin, and the clear eyes; but for a certain 
weakness in the jaw I should have called it the handsomest 
face I had ever seen. More, it was a face that was familiar 
to me. I had seen the like of it before ; but where I could 
not tell, and I cudgelled my brains to think of it. 

“ Ah, my faith," said the stranger, speaking with a for¬ 
eign accent, “ what have we here ? A room full of sleepy 
citizens. Or drunk, egad, drunk, I believe." 

And he walked over to where Peter Crustcrackit sat 
nodding, and stared in his face. Now the noise wakened 
the rest; and Peter also, who sitting up with a stupid air 
thought that he was still in the shop, and cried hurriedly, 
“ What d’ye lack, sir ? Silks or satins or plain kersey," 
and ran into a recital of his wares. 

The newcomer looked at him with an amused smile. 
“ It is not difficult to tell your profession, my friend. The 
ninth of a man." 

Then he surveyed the rest of us in turn with his restless 
eyes, until his look fell upon me. He must have marked 
something about my appearance distinct from the others, 
for^he bowed and addressed me politely. 

“ You are not one of these fellows, I think. May I ask 
the favour of your name ? I have been long absent from 
this country and have forgot faces." 

** You are welcome to it," said I. “ They call me John 
Burnet—of Bams," I added, for the first time using my 
new-found title 


THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES 69 

He crossed to my side in an instant and held out his 
hand. “ Your hand. Master Burnet. You and I should be 
well known to each other, for we shall be near neighbours. 
You may have heard of Michael Veitch of Dawyck, him 
that was soldiering abroad. I am that same, returned like 
the prodigal from far countries.” 

Now I knew where I had seen the face before. It was 
but ft coarse and manly counterpart of Marjory’s, though I 
fancied that hers was still the braver and stronger, if all 
were told. 

“ I have often heard of you,” I said, “ and I am glad to 
be the first to bid you welcome to your own countryside. 
These are some men of the town, honest fellows, who come 
here for their evening ale.” 

“ Your health, gentlemen,” he cried, bowing to the com¬ 
pany. “ Landlord, bring ale and a bottle of your best 
Burgundy till I pledge these honest fellows.” 

“ Eh, sirs,” I heard Peter Crustcrackit mutter under his 
breath, “sic an invasion o’ gentles. The Northgate o’ 
Peebles micht be the High Street o’ Embro’, for a’ the braw 
folk that are coming tae’t. I maun think aboot shifting 
my shop.” 

It would be well on for eight o’clock ere Master Veitch 
and I left the Pegasus to ride homeward. The night was 
quieter and milder, and overhead a patch of clear sky showed 
the stars. He had with him two serving-men who carried 
his belongings, but they rode some little distance behind. 
He was full of questions about Dawyck and his kinsfolk 
there and the countryside around ; so I must needs tell him 
something of what had passed between Marjory and myself. 
He seemed not ill-pleased. “ What,” he cried, “ little 
Marjory, who was scarce higher than my knee when I left! 
To think that she should have grown into a woman already ! 
And you say she is pretty ? ” 

Which question gave me much opportunity for such 
talk as one must use when he feels the littleness of words. 

Then he must ask me about myself, of my father, of 
whose death he was ignorant, and what I purposed to do. 


;o JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ For I doubt,” said he, “ that you will have but a dull 
time of it at Bams in that great desolate house.. It little 
befits an active man to pine at home like a mouse in a cell.” 

So from one thing to another, he had me to tell him of 
all my desires, of how I longed above all things to travel and 
see the world; and he spoke to me in such a fashion that 
ere we had come to the ford of Tweed my intention was 
fixed to ride out like the Spanish Don to see what might 
befall me. 


CHAPTER VIII 

I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS 

The next month was, I think, the busiest in my life. For 
from the evening of my meeting with Michael Veitch my 
mind was firmly made up to go to travel abroad, and with 
this determination came all the countless troubles which a 
man must meet before he can leave his home. I was busF 
night and day, now down at Peebles, now riding up Manor 
and all over the Barns lands, seeing that all things were in 
right order ere my departure. I got together all the money 
I desired, and with drafts on the Dutch bankers, which the 
lawyer folk in Edinburgh got for me, I was in no danger of 
falling into poverty abroad. 

On Tam Todd I laid the management of all things in my 
absence ; and Tam, much impressed by his responsibility, 
though it was a task which he had really undertaken long 
before in the later years of my father’s life, went about his 
work with a serious, preoccupied air, as of Atlas with the 
world on his shoulders. I had much ado in getting ready 
my baggage for the journey, for I wished to take little, 
being confident that I could buy all things needful abroad. 
Jean Morran, on the other hand, would have had me take 
half the plenishing of the house of Bams, from linen sheets 
to fresh-kimed butter; for I could not persuade her to 
think otherwise than that I was going into a desolate land 
among heathen savages. 


I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS 


7i 


Then I had to visit many folk up and down Tweed to 
take farewell; and I had so many letters given me to men 
of standing abroad, that, if I had delivered them all, I 
should have had to spend more time than I cared. One I 
valued more than any other—a letter written by Master 
Gilbert Burnet, of London, to a professor in the university 
of Leyden—which I hoped would bring me into the company 
of scholars. For I had changed my original intention of 
going to the wars, first, because I found on examination 
that, in my inmost heart, I had that hankering after learn¬ 
ing which would never be sated save by a life with some 
facilities for study; second, because, now that I was the 
sole member of the house, it behoved me to bide on the 
land and see to it, and any such thing as soldiering would 
keep me away for too great a time. I sent, too, to the 
College Library at Glasgow, for all the books on the Low 
Countries to be had, and spent much profitable time read¬ 
ing of the history of the place, and how the land lay. 

During these days I was much in the company of the 
new master of Dawyck, and a most delectable comrade I 
found him. He had a vast stock of tales and jests, col¬ 
lected in his travels, with which he would amuse his friends ; 
he was something of a scholar, and could talk learnedly 
when he chose; and he was expert at all outdoor sports, 
pressing me hard at the sword-play, in which I prided myself 
on my skill. He was of a free, generous nature, and singu¬ 
larly courteous to all, high and low, rich and poor alike. 
Yet, with all these excellencies, there was much that I 
liked ill about him, for he was over-fond of resorting to the 
taverns at Peebles, where he would muddle his wits in the 
company of his inferiors. His life at Dawyck was none 
of the most regular, though, indeed, I have little cause to 
blame him, being none so good myself ; though the vice of 
over-indulging in wine was one that Providence always 
mercifully kept me from. 

He came perhaps every third day to Bams to ride with 
me in the haugh, and he would abide to supper-time, or even 
over night, making me fear for Marjory’s peace of mind. 


72 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

To his sister he was most dutiful and kind, and I was glad 
to think that now the days might be more pleasant for her 
with her brother in the house. And it pleased me to think 
that when I went abroad, my lady would be left in no bad 
keeping. 

The days, the short January days, passed quickly over 
my head, and, almost ere I knew, the time had come for my 
departure. And now, when the hour came so nigh, I felt 
some pain at the thought of leaving home and my beloved 
countryside for unknown places ; though, to tell the truth, 
such thoughts were not ill to dispel by the contemplation 
of the pleasures in prospect. Yet it was with mingled feel¬ 
ings that I rode over to Dawyck on a sharp Monday after¬ 
noon to bid Marjory farewell. 

I found her in the low, dim room, looking to the west, 
where she was wont to sit in winter. A great fire crackled 
cheerily on the hearth, and many little devices about the 
place showed a woman’s hand. Holly, with scarlet berries, 
put colour into the sombre walls, and Marjory herself, 
brighter than any flower, made the firelight dull in the 
contrast; so far she looked, as she greeted me, with her 
bright hair and unfathomable eyes. 

“ I have come to see you for the last time, Marjory,” I 
said; “ to-morrow I set out on my travels.” 

“lam vexed that you are going away,” and she looked at 
me sadly ; “it will be lonely in Tweeddale without you.” 

“ My dear lass, I will not be long. Two years at the 
longest, and then I will be home to you, and travel no more. 
What say you, Marjory ? ” 

“ Your will be done, John. Yet I would I could have 
gone with you.” 

“ I would you could, my dear,” I said. “ But that might 
scarce be. You would not like, I think, to sail on rough 
seas, or bide among towns and colleges. You love the woods 
too well.” 

“ Wherever you were,” said she, with her eyes drooped 
“ I would be content to be.” 

" But Marjory, lass,” I spoke up cheerfully, for I feared 


I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS 


73 


to make her sad, " you would not like me to stay at home, 
when the world is so wide, and so many brave things to be 
seen.” 

“ No, no. I have no love for folks who bide in the house 
like children. I would have you go and do gallantly, and 
come home full of fine tales. But where do you mean to go, 
and how will you pass your time ? ” 

“ Oh,” said I, “ I go first to Rotterdam, where I may re¬ 
side for a while. Then I purpose to visit the college at 
Leyden, to study ; for I would fain spend some portion of 
my time profitably. After that I know not what I will do, 
but be sure that I will be home within the two years. For, 
though I am blithe to set out, I doubt not that I will be 
blither to come back again.” 

“ I trust you may not learn in those far-away places to 
look down on Tweeddale and the simple folks here. I doubt 
you may, John ; for you are not a steadfast man,” and, at 
this, she laughed and I blushed, for I thought of my conduct 
at Glasgow. 

“ Nay, nay,” I answered ; “ I love you all too well for 
that. Though the Emperor of Cathay were to offer me all 
his treasure to bide away, I would come back. I would 
rather be a shepherd in Tweeddale than a noble in Spain.” 

“ Brave words, John,” she cried, “ brave words I See 
you hold to them.” 

Then after that we fell to discussing Michael, and his ways 
of amusing himself ; and I bade Marjory tell her brother to 
look in now and then at Bams to see how Tam Todd fared. 
Also I bade her tell him that it was my wish that he should 
hunt and fish over my lands as much as he pleased. “ And 
see you keep him in order,” I added, laughing, “ lest he slip 
off to the wars again.” 

“ Oh, John,” she said, with a frightened look, “ do not 
speak so. That is what I fear above all things, for he is 
restless, even here, and must ever be wandering from one 
place to another.” 

" Tut, my dear,” I said ; “ Michael, be sure, is too honest 
a man to leave you again, when I am off, once I have left 


74 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

you in his care. Have no fear for him. But we are get¬ 
ting as dull as owls, and it is many days since I heard your 
voice. I pray you sing me a song, as you used to do in the 
old da/s. 'Twill be long ere I hear another." 

She rose and went without a word to her harpsichord and 
struck a few notes. Now Marjory had a most wonderful 
voice, more like a linnet’s than aught else, and she sang the 
old ballads very sweetly. But to-day she took none of 
them, but a brisk martial song, which pleased me marvel¬ 
lously well. I will set down the words as she sang them, for 
I have hummed them many a time to myself : 

44 Oh, if my love were sailor-bred, 

And fared afar from home, 

In perilous lands, by shoal and sands, 

If he were sworn to roam, 

Then, oh, I’d hie me to a ship, 

And sail upon the sea, 

And keep his side in wind and tide. 

To bear him company. 

44 And if he were a soldier gay, 

And tarried from the town, 

And sought in wars, through death and scars. 

To win for him renown, 

I’d place his colours in my breast, 

And ride by moor and lea, 

And win his side, there to abide, 

And bear him company. 

44 For sooth a maid, all unafraid, 

Should by her lover be, 

With wile and art to cheer his heart. 

And bear him company.” 

" A fine promise, Marjory," I cried, “ and some day 
may claim its fulfilment. But who taught you the song ? ” 

“ Who but the Travelling Packman, or, maybe, the 
Wandering Jew ! " she said, laughingly ; and I knew this 
was the way of answer she used when she would not tell me 
anything. So, to this day, I know not whence she got the 
catch. 

Then we parted, not without tears on her part, and blank 
misgivings on my own. For the vexed question came to 
disturb me, whether it was not mere self-gratification on my 


I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS 


75 


part thus to travel, and whether my more honourable place 
was not at home. But I banished the thoughts, for I 
knew how futile they were, and comforted my brave lass 
as best I could. 

“ Fare thee well, my love,” I cried, as I mounted my 
horse, " and God defend you till I come again ” ; and, 
whenever I looked back, till I had passed the great avenue, 
I saw the glimmer of Marjory’s dress, and felt pricked in 
the conscience for leaving her. 


CHAPTER IX 

I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION 

It was on a fine sharp morning, early in February, that 1 
finally bade good-bye to the folk at Barns and forded Tweed 
and rode out into the world. There was a snell feel in the 
air which fired my blood, and made me fit for anything 
which Providence might send. I was to ride Maisie as far 
as Leith, where I was to leave her with a man at the Har¬ 
bour Walk, who would send her back to Tweeddale ; fori 
knew it would be a hard thing to get passage for a horse in 
the small ships which sailed between our land and the Low 
Countries at that time of year. 

At the Lyne Water ford, Michael Veitch was waiting for 
me. He waved his hat cheerfully, and cried, “ Good luck 
to you, John, and see that you bide not too long away.” 
I told him of a few things which I wished him to see to, and 
then left him, riding up the little bum which comes down 
between the Meldon hills, and whither lies the road to 
Eddleston Water. When I was out of sight of him, I 
seemed to have left all my home behind me, and I grew 
almost sorrowful. At the top of the ridge I halted and 
looked back. There was Bams among its bare trees and 
frosted meadows, with Tweed winding past, and beyond, a 
silvery glint of the Manor coming down from its blue, cold 
hills. There was Scrape, with its long slopes clad in firs, 
and the grey house of Dawyck nestling at its foot. I saw 


76 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

the thin smoke curling up from the little village of Lyne, 
and Lyne Kirk standing on its whin-covered brae, and the 
bonny holms of Lyne Water, where I had often taken great 
baskets of trout. I must have stayed there, gazing, for 
half an hour ; and, whenever I looked on the brown moors 
and woods, where I had wandered from boyhood, I felt 
sorrowful, whether I would or no. 

“ But away with such thoughts/' I said, steeling my 
heart. “ There’s many a fine thing awaiting me, and, after 
all, I will be back in a year or two to the place and the folk 
that I love.” So I went down to the village of Eddleston 
whistling the “ Cavalier’s Rant,” and firmly shutting my 
mind against thoughts of home. I scarce delayed in Eddle¬ 
ston, but pushed on up the valley, expecting to get dinner 
at the inn at Leadbum, which stands at the watershed, just 
where the county of Edinburgh touches our shire on Tweed- 
dale. The way, which is a paradise in summer, was rugged 
and cold at this season. The banks of the stream were 
crusted with ice, and every now and then, as I passed, I 
raised a string of wild duck, who fled noisily to the high 
wildernesses. 

I came to Leadbum about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, 
somewhat cold in body, but brisk and comforted in spirit. 
I had Maisie stabled, and myself went into the hostel and 
bade them get ready dinner. The inn is the most villain¬ 
ous, bleak place that I have ever seen, and I who write this 
have seen many. The rooms are damp and mouldy, and 
the chimney-stacks threaten hourly to come down about 
the heads of the inmates. It stands in the middle of a black 
peat-bog, which stretches nigh to the Pentland Hills ; and 
if there be a more forsaken countryside on earth, I do not 
know it. The landlord, nevertheless, was an active, civil 
man, not spoiled by his surroundings ; and he fetched me an 
excellent dinner—a brace of wildfowl and a piece of salted 
beef, washed down with very tolerable wine. 

I had just finished, and was resting a little before order¬ 
ing my horse, when the most discordant noise arose in the 
inn-yard; and, going to the window, I beheld two great. 


I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS 


77 

strong serving-men pulling a collie by a rope tied around the 
animal’s neck. It was a fine, shaggy black-and-white dog, 
and I know not what it could have done to merit such 
treatment. But its captors had not an easy task, for it 
struggled and thrawed at the rope, and snarled savagely, 
and every now and then made desperate sallies upon the 
hinderparts of its leaders. They cursed it, not unnatur¬ 
ally, for an ill-conditioned whelp, and some of the idlers, 
who are usually found about an inn, flung stones or beat it 
with sticks from behind. Now I hate, above all things, to 
see a beast suffer, no matter how it may have deserved it; 
so I had it in my mind to go down and put a stop to the 
cruelty, when some one else came before me. 

This was a very long, thin man, with a shock of black 
hair, and a sunburnt face, attired in a disorder of different 
clothes—a fine, though tarnished coat, stout, serviceable 
small-clothes, and the coarsest of shoes and stockings. He 
darted forward like a hawk from a comer of the yard, 
and, ere I could guess his intentions, had caught the rope 
and let the dog go free. The beast ran howling to seek 
shelter, and its preserver stood up to face the disappointed 
rascals. They glared at him fiercely, and were on the point 
of rushing on him, had not something in his demeanour 
deterred them. 

“ Oh,” said he, in a scornful voice, " ye’re fine folk, you 
Leidbum folk. Braw and kindly lolk. Graund at hangin' 
dowgs and tormentin’ dumb beasts, but like a wheen skelpit 
puppies when ye see a man.” 

“Ye meddlin’ deevil,” said one, “ whae askit ye to come 
here ? The dowg was an ill, useless beast, and it was time 
it was hangit.” 

“ And what d’ye ca' yoursel ? ” said the stranger. “ I 
ken ye fine, Tam Tiddup, for a thievin’, idle vaigabond, 
and if every useless beast was hangit, there wadna be yin 
o’ ye here.” 

This made them grumble, and a stone was thrown, but 
still something in the easy, dauntless air of their enemy kept 
them back. 


78 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" But I’m no the man to let a dowg gang free wi’oot giein’ 
some kind o’ return. Ye’re a’ brave men, dour warlike men, 
and I’ve nae doot unco keen o’ a fecht. Is there no some 
kind o’ green bit hereaways whaur I could hae a fling wi' yin 
o' ye ? I’ll try ye a’ in turn, but no to mak ill-feelin’. I’ll 
tak the biggest yin first. Will ye come, ye muckle hash ? ” 
he said suddenly, addressing the tallest of the number. 

Now the man addressed had clearly no stomach for fight, 
but he was tall and stout, and stood in fear of the ridicule 
of his companions, and further, he doubtless thought that 
he would have an easy victory over the lean stranger, so he 
accepted with as good a show of readiness as he could muster. 

“ Come on, ye flee-up-i’-the-air, and I'll see if I canna pit 
thae fushionless airms o’ yours oot o’ joint.” 

I heard them appoint a flat place beside the bum, just 
on the edge of the bog, and watched them trooping out of 
the yard. The rabble went first, with a great semblance of 
valour, and the brown-faced stranger, with a sardonic grin 
on his countenance, stepped j auntily behind. Now I dearly 
love a fight, but yet I scarce thought fit to go and look on 
with the rest; so I had Maisie saddled, and rode after them, 
that I might look like some chance passer-by stopping to 
witness the encounter. 

When I came up to the place, there were already some 
thirty men collected. It was a green spot by the side of 
the Hawes burn, with the frost not lifted from the grass ; 
and in the bum itself the ice lay thick, for it flows slug¬ 
gishly like all bogland waters. The place was beaten down 
as if folk were used to go there, and here the men made a 
ring about their champion, some helping him to unbuckle 
his belt, some giving advice about how to close with his 
adversary. The adversary himself stood waiting their plea¬ 
sure with the most unconcerned air, whistling “ The Green 
Holms o’ Linton,” and stamping his feet on the ground to 
keep himself warm. 

In a little the two were ready, and stood facing each other 
on the cold moor. A whistling wind came in short blasts 
from the hills, and made their ears tingle, and mine also 


I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS 


79 


till I wished that I were one of the two to have some chance 
of warming my blood. But when once the fight began, I 
thought little more of the cold. 

The countryman gripped the stranger round the middle 
and tugged desperately to throw him. Up and down, back¬ 
wards and forwards they went, kicking up in their struggle 
pieces of turf and little stones. Once they were all but in 
the water, but the stranger, seeing his peril, made a bold 
leap back and dragged the other with him. And now I 
feared that it was going to go hard with the succourer of 
distressed dogs ; for his unwieldy opponent was pressing so 
heavily upon him that I expected every moment to see him 
go down. Once I caught sight of his face, and, to my 
surprise, it was calm as ever ; the very straw he had been 
chewing before being still between his teeth. 

Now the fight took another turn ; for my friend, by an 
adroit movement, slipped below the other's arms, flung 
himself backwards, just as I have seen a tumbler do at a 
fair at Peebles, and before the other knew his design, stood 
smiling before him. The man's astonishment was so great 
that he stood staring, and if the stranger had used his 
advantage, he might have thrown him there and then. By 
and by he recovered and came on, swearing and wrathful. 

" Ye've slippit awa' yince, ye ether, but I’ll see that ye'll no | 
dae’t again " ; and with his sluggish blood roused to some 
heat, he flung himself on his foe, who received him much 
as a complacent maid receives the caresses of a traveller. 
The fellow thought his victory certain, and put out all 
his strength ; but now, of a sudden, my friend woke up. 
He twisted his long arms round his adversary, and a mighty 
struggle began. The great, fat-bellied man was swaying to 
and fro like a basket on a pack-horse ; his face grew purple 
and pale at the lips, and his body grew limper and weaker. 

I expected to see a good fight, but I was disappointed ; for 
before 1 knew, they were on the edge of the pool, tottered a 
second, and then, with a mighty crunching and splashing, 
bounded through the thin ice into the frosty water. 

A great brown face, with draggled, black hair, followed 


So 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

closely by a red and round one, appeared above the surface, 
and two dripping human beings dragged themselves to the 
bank. The teeth of both chattered like a smith's shop, 
but in the mouth of one I espied a yellowish thing, sorely 
bitten and crumbled. It was the piece of straw. A loud 
shout greeted their appearance, and much laughter. The 
one slunk away with his comrades, in no very high fettle, 
leaving the other shaking himself like a water-dog on the 
grass. 

I found the stranger looking up at me, as I sat my horse, 
with a glance half quizzical and half deprecatory. The 
water ran down his odd clothes and formed in pools in the 
bare places of the ground. He shivered in the cold wind, 
and removed little fragments of ice from his coat. Then he 
spoke. 

“ Ye'll be the Laird o’ Bams settin' oot on your traivels ? ’* 

“ Good Lord ! What do you know of my business ? " I 
asked, and, as I looked at him, I knew that I had seen the 
face before. Of a sudden he lifted his arm to rub his eye¬ 
brows, and the motion brought back to me at once a vision 
of excited players and a dry, parched land, and a man per¬ 
plexedly seeking to convince them of something; and I 
remembered him for the man who had brought the news to 
Peebles of the rising of Tweed. 

“ I know you," I said. “ You are the man who came 
down with news of the great flood. But what do you 
here ? " 

“ Bide a wee and I’ll tell ye. Ye’ll mind that ye tellt me 
if ever I was in need o’ onything, to come your way. Weel, 
I’ve been up Tweed, and doun Tweed, and ower the hills, 
and up the hills, till there’s nae mair places left for me to 
gang. So I heard o’ your gaun ower the seas, and I took it 
into my heid that I wad like to gang tae. So here I am, at 
your service." 

The fellow’s boldness all but took my breath away. 
“ What, in Heaven's name, would I take you with me for ? " 
I asked. “ I doubt we would suit each other ill." 

“ Na, na, you and me wad gree fine. I’ve heard tell o* 


I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS 


81 


ye, Laird, though ye’ve heard little o’ me, and by a’ accoonts 
we’re just made for each ither.” 

Now if any other one had spoken to me in this tone I 
should have made short work of him ; but I was pleased 
with this man's conduct in the affair just past, and, besides, 
I felt I owed something to my promise. 

“ But,” said I, going to Holland is not like going to 
Peebles fair, and who is to pay your passage, man ? ” 

“ Oh,” said he, “ I maun e’en be your body-servant, so 
to speak.” 

“ I have little need of a body-servant. I am used to 
shifting for myself. But to speak to the purpose, what use 
could you be to me? ” 

“ What use ? ” the man repeated. “ Eh, sir, ye ken 
little o’ Nicol Plenderleith to talk that gait. A’ the folk o’ 
Brochtoun and Tweedsmuir, and awa’ ower by Clyde 
Water ken that there’s no his match for rinnin’ andspeelin’ 
and shootin’ wi’ the musket; I’ll find my way oot o’ a hole 
when a’ body else 'ill bide in’t. But fie on me to be blawin’ 
my ain trumpet at siccan a speed. But tak me wi’ ye, and 
if I’m no a’ I say, ye can cry me for a gowk at the Cross o* 
Peebles.” 

Now I know not what possessed me, who am usually of 
a sober, prudent nature, to listen to this man ; but some¬ 
thing in his brown, eager face held me captive, and his 
powerful make filled me with admiration. He was honest 
and kindly; I had had good evidence of both; and his 
bravery was beyond doubting. I thought how such a man 
might be of use to me in a foreign land, both as company 
and protection. I had taken a liking to the fellow, and, 
with our family, such likings go for much. Nevertheless, I 
was almost surprised at myself when I said : 

“ I like the look of you, Nicol Plenderleith, and am half- 
minded to take you with me as my servant.” 

“ I thank ye kindly, Laird. I kenned ye wad dae’t. I 
cam to meet ye here wi' my best claes for that very reason.” 

“ You rascal,” I cried, half laughing at his confidence, 
and half angry at his audacity. “I’ve a good mind to 


82 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

leave you behind after all. You talk as if you were master 
of all the countryside. But come along ; we will see if the 
landlord has not a more decent suit of clothes for your back 
if you are going into my service. I will have no coughing, 
catarrhy fellows about me." 

“ Hech,” muttered my attendant, following, “ ye micht 
as well expect a heron to get the cauld frae wadin’ in the 
water, as Nicol Plenderleith. Howbeit, your will be done, 
sir.” 

From the landlord at the inn I bought a suit of homespun 
clothes which, by good fortune, fitted Nicol; and left his 
soaked garments as part payment. Clad decently, he 
looked a great, stalwart man, though somewhat bent in the 
back, and with a strange craning forward of the neck, 
acquired, I think, from much wandering among hills. I 
hired a horse to take him to Edinburgh, and the two of us 
rode out of the yard, followed by the parting courtesies of 
the host. 

Of our journey to Edinburgh, I have little else to tell. We 
came to the town in the afternoon, and went through the 
streets to the port of Leith, after leaving our horses at the 
place arranged for. I was grieved to part from Maisie, for 
I had ridden her from boyhood, and she had come to know 
my ways wondrous well. We found a vessel to sail the next 
mom for Rotterdam, and bargained with the captain for 
our passage. When all had been settled, and we had looked 
our fill upon the harbour and the craft, and felt the salt of 
the sea on our lips, we betook ourselves to an inn, The Three 
Herrings , which fronted the quay, and there abode for the 
night. 


BOOK II—'THE LOW COUNTRIES 

CHAPTER I 

OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES 

We were aboard on the next morning by a little after day¬ 
break, for the captain had forewarned me, the night before- 
that he purposed to catch the morning tide. To one inland 
bred, the harbour of Leith was a sight to whet the curiosity. 
There were vessels of all kinds and sizes, little fishing smacks 
with brown, home-made sails, from Fife or the Lothian 
coast towns, great sea-going ships, many with strange 
foreign names on their sides, and full of a great bustle of 
lading and unlading. There was such a concourse of men, 
too, as made the place like a continuous horse-fair. Half a 
dozen different tongues jabbered in my ear, of which I knew 
not one word, save of the French, which I could make a fair 
shape to speak, having learned it from Tam Todd, along 
with much else of good and bad. There were men in red 
cowls like Ayrshire weavers, and men in fur hats from the 
North, and dark-skinned fellows, too, from the Indies, and 
all this motley crew w r ould be running up and down jabber¬ 
ing and shrilling like a pack of hounds. And every now and 
then across the uproar would come the deep voice of a Scots 
skipper, swearing and hectoring as if the world and all that 
is in it were his peculiar possession. 

But when we had cleared the Roads of Leith, and were 
making fair way down the firth, with a good north-westerly 
breeze behind us, then there was a sight worth the seeing. 
For behind lay Leith, with its black masts and tall houses, 
and at the back again,/Edinburgh, with its castle looming 

83 


8 4 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

up grim and solemn, and farther still, the Pentlands, ridged 
like a saw, running far to the westward. In front I marked 
the low shore of Fife, with the twin Lomonds, which you 
can see by climbing Caerdon, or Dollar Law, or any one of 
the high Tweedside hills. The channel was as blue as a 
summer sky, with a wintry clearness and a swell which was 
scarce great enough to break into billows. The Kern , for 
so the vessel was called, had all her sail set, and bounded 
gallantly on her way. It was a cheerful sight, what with 
the sails filling to the wind, and men passing hither and 
thither at work with the cordage, and the running seas keep¬ 
ing pace with the vessel. The morning fires were being lit 
in the little villages of Fife, and I could see the smoke curl¬ 
ing upwards in a haze from every bay and neuk. 

But soon the firth was behind us, and we passed between 
the Bass rock and the May, out into the open sea. This I 
scarcely found so much to my liking. I was inland-bred, 
and somewhat delicate in my senses, so, soon I came to 
loathe the odour of fish and cookery and sea-water, which 
was everywhere in the vessel. Then the breeze increased 
to a stiff wind, and the Kern leaped and rocked among great 
rolling billows. At first the movement was almost pleasing, 
being like the motion of a horse’s gallop in a smooth field. 
And this leads me to think that if a boat were but small 
enough, so as to be more proportionate to the body of man, 
the rocking of it would be as pleasing as the rise and fall of 
a horse’s stride. But in a great, cumbrous ship, where man 
is but a little creature, it soon grows wearisome. We stood 
well out to sea, so I could but mark the bolder features of 
the land. Even these I soon lost sight of, for the whole 
earth and air began to dance wofully before my eyes. I 
felt a dreadful sinking, and a cold sweat began to break on 
my brow. I had heard of the sea-sickness, but I could not 
believe that it was this. This was something ten times 
worse, some deadly plague which Heaven had sent to stay 
me on my wanderings. 

I leaned over the side of the ship in a very disconsolate 
frame of mind. If this was all I was to get on my journey. 


MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES 85 

I had better have stayed at home. I was landward-bred 
and knew naught of boats, save one which Tam Todd had 
made as a ferry across the Tweed, and which was indeed 
more like a meal-chest than aught else. In it we were wont 
to paddle across when we were fearful of wetting our shoon. 
But this rolling, boisterous ship and turgid seas were strange 
to me, and I fear I fell monstrous sick. 

Nicol Plenderleith had disappeared almost as soon as he 
came aboard, and I saw him deep in converse with the 
sailors. When we had cleared the Forth he came back to 
me, as I leaned disconsolately against the bulwarks, and 
asked me how I did. His lean, brown face was not a whit 
changed by the rocking of the ship ; indeed, if he had been 
astraddle the Saddleback in a gale he would not have been 
perturbed. When he saw my plight he ran below and 
brought brandy. 

“ Here, sir, take some o' this. It's tasty at a’ times, but 
it's mair than tasty the noo, it's halesome." 

“ Nicol,” I groaned, “ if I never get home again, I look 
to you to tell the folk in Tweeddale. It's terrible to die 
here of this villainous sickness, for I shall certainly die if it 
continues. Will it never cease ? ** 

“ I've been speirin' at the captain and by a' accounts 
we’re no at the warst o't. He says it’s juist like the backs 
o’ Leith. If ye win by the Fisherraw ye’ll meet your death 
i’ the Kettle Wynd, and, if by any chance ye’re no killed 
there, ye’ll be dune for i’ the Walk. He was speaking o’ 
the stinks o’ the place and no the folk, for they’re peaceable 
eneuch, puir bodies. * Weel,' says he, ‘ it’s the same here. 
It’s ill for some folk to win by the Forth, but it’s waur i' 
the open sea, and when it comes to the Dutch waters, it's 
fair awfu’.' I wis, Laird, ye maunna dee.” 

This was poor consolation, and had I not formed some 
guess of my servant’s manners, I should have been down¬ 
hearted enough ; but there was a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
and, even as he spoke, his mouth broadened to a grin. 
I heard him humming the lines of an old ditty which I 
supposed to have some reference to my state: 


86 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

Tam o’ the Linn and a’ his bairns 
Fell into the fire in ilk ither’s airms. 

“ Eh,” quoth the binmost, “ I have a het skin.** 

«* It’s hetter below,” quo’ Tam o’ the Linn. 

But, sure enough, the captain’s prophecy did not come 
true. For in a little the waves grew calmer, and my sick¬ 
ness left me. Tis true that soon we entered troubled waters 
once more, but I was fortified with experience, and some 
measure of brandy, and so could laugh defiance at the power 
of the sea. 

The wind throughout our course was fair in our favour, 
so we made the journey in shorter time than I had dared to 
hope for. On the morning of the third day a dense mist 
shut us in so that the captain was much confused and 
angered. But on the wind’s rising, the fog rolled back, and 
we went on our way once more. Early in the afternoon we 
sighted the mouth of the Maas, and the tall lines of shipping, 
which told of the entrance to Rotterdam. You may ima¬ 
gine that all this was very strange to me, I who had lived 
only among hills and rough woods, and had seen the sea 
but once, and that afar off. ’Twas a perpetual wonder to 
me to see the great sails moved up and down according to 
the airt of the wind, and the little helm guiding the great 
ship. As I have said, I soon got over all sickness, and was 
as hale as ever, so that on the last two days of the voyage 
I ever look back as upon a time of great pleasure. 

But if my wonder was great in the open seas, ’twas still 
greater once we had entered the Dutch river. It was all so 
unlike my own land that the home-sickness which travellers 
tell of had almost taken hold of me. There were all manner 
of ships—some little coasting vessels, others, huge merchant¬ 
men which brought home the wares of the Indies and Amer¬ 
icas. There was such a jabbering, too, in Dutch, of which 
tongue I knew naught, that I longed to hear one good, 
intelligible word of Scots, for which cause I kept my servant 
near me. By and by we neared the quay, and saw the 
merchants’ great red storehouses standing in long line, and 
the streets of the city running back from the river. Here 


MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES 87 

we came to an anchor. Our journey was over, and I had 
to bid farewell to captain and vessel and go ashore. 

It is not to be expected that I should seek to describe 
what is known to nigh every one in these days when a man 
thinks nothing of crossing to France or Holland on any 
pretext or in any weather. From such, therefore, by word 
of mouth let he who desires it seek information ; for myself, 

I have enough to do to write down the main acts of my life. 

One thing I noted—that the air was somewhat soft and 
damp, lacking, to my mind, the acrid strength of the air of 
Tweeddale, or even of the Lothians. But all the streets 
were clean swept and orderly ; the folk well-groomed and 
well-looking ; and the trees by the riverside gave a pleasant 
surprise to one accustomed to the grim, grey, narrow streets 
of the North. I made my way by the help of an inquisitive 
Scots tongue and the French language to a decent hostelry 
in the Groote Markt just opposite the statue (but lately 
erected) of the great Erasmus. This pleased me much, for 
to be near even the poor bronze figure of so great a man 
seemed to lend to the place an air of learning. I employed 
myself profitably in reading the Latin inscriptions; the 
others I could make no more of than the rudest ploughboy 
in Scotland. 

Both Nicol and I were up betimes in the morning, that 
we might get the coach for Leyden, which started almost 
from the door of our inn. I solemnly set down my testi¬ 
mony that the ale in that same house is the most villainous 
in the world, for it made us both dismal and oppressed, a 
trouble which did not leave us till we had taken our seats 
in the diligence and the horses were starting. 

Of the events of that day’s journey how shall I tell ? 
Leyden is a day’s length from Rotterdam to the north, 
through a land flat as a girdle-cake. The horses were lum¬ 
bering, sleepy brutes, and the driver scarce any better, for 
every now and again he would let them come to the walk 
for long distances, and then, suddenly awaking to the fact 
that he must get to his destination before night, get up 
and shout wildly, and feebly flick their backs with his whip. 


88 


JOHN BURNET. OF BARNS 

I had much ado to keep Nicol from trying to take the reins 
from his hands, and, certainly, if that firebrand had once 
taken them, we should have awakened the quiet country¬ 
side, and, God helping us, might even have awakened the 
driver. I knew nothing of the country, and heard but 
vaguely the names shouted out by the guard of the coach ; 
yet, somehow or other, the name of Ryswick clung to my 
memory, and I remembered it well when, long after, at that 
place the treaty was signed which closed the war. But at 
that time the great duke was plain Master Churchill, and 
there was no thought of war between our land and France. 
The place was so new to my eyes that I rebelled against its 
persistent flatness and dull, dead water-courses ; but soon 
I came to acknowledge a kind of prettiness in it, though 
'twas of a kind far removed from the wild loveliness of 
Tweedside. The well-ordered strips of trees, the poplars 
like sentinels around the homesteads, the red-roofed home¬ 
steads themselves, with their ricks and stables, had a homely 
and habitable look, and such of the folk as we saw by the 
roadside were as sleek and stolid as their land. I could not 
think of the place as a nursery of high and heroical virtues, 
but rather of the minor moralities of good-sense and good¬ 
nature. 

It was late in the afternoon when we came to Leyden, and 
rattled down the rough street to the market-place, which 
was the stopping-place of the coach. This was a town more 
comely and conformable to my eye than the greater city of 
Rotterdam. For here the streets were not so even, the 
houses not so trim, and the whole showing a greater sem¬ 
blance of age. There were many streams and canals crossed 
by broad, low bridges. It was a time of great mildness, for 
the season of the year. The place had all that air of battered 
age and historic worth which I have observed in our own 
city of Edinburgh. Even as I looked on it my mind was 
full of memories of that terrible siege, when the folk of 
Leyden held out so stoutly against the black Spaniards, till 
their king overthrew the dykes and saved the town by 
flooding the land. 


MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES 89 


It was my first concern to secure lodgings, since I pur¬ 
posed to spend no little portion of my time here for the 
next two years ; and, as I had been directed by my kins¬ 
man, Dr. Gilbert Burnet, I sought the house of one Cornelius 
Vanderdecker, who abode in a little alley off the Breede- 
straat. Arrived there, I found that the said Cornelius had 
been in a better world for some fifteen months, but that his 
widow, a tranquil Dutchwoman, with a temper as long as a 
Dutch canal, was most willing to lodge me and treat me to 
the best which the house could afford. We speedily made 
a bargain in bad French, and Nicol and I were installed in 
rooms in the back part of the house, overlooking a long 
garden, which ended in one of the streams of water which I 
have spoken of. It was somewhat desolate at that time, 
but I could see that in summer, when the straight trees 
were in leaf, the trim flower-beds and the close-cropped lawn 
would make the place exceeding pretty. I was glad of it, 
for I am country-bred and dearly do I love greenery and the 
sight of flowers. 

I delayed till the next morning, when I had got the soil 
of travel from my clothes and myself once more into some 
semblance of sprightliness, ere I went to the college to 
present my letters and begin my schooling. So after the 
morning meal, I attired myself in befitting dress and put 
Nicol into raiment suiting his rank and company ; and set 
out with a light heart to that great and imposing institution, 
which has been the star of Europe in philosophy and all 
other matters of learning. I own that it was with feelings 
of some trepidation that I approached the place. Heie had 
dwelt Grotius and Salmasius and the incomparable Scaliger. 
Here they had studied and written their immortal books; 
the very place was still redolent of their memories. Here, 
too, unless my memory deceived me, had dwelt the French¬ 
man, Renatus Descartes, who had first opened a way for 
me from the chaos of the schoolmen to the rectitude of true 
philosophy. I scarcely dared to enroll my unworthy name 
in the halls of such illustrious spirits. But I thought on my 
name and race, and plucked up heart thereupon to knock 


9° 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

stoutly at the gates. A short, stout man opened to me, 
clad in a porter’s gown, not unlike the bedellus in the far¬ 
away college of Glasgow, but carrying in his hand a black 
staff, and at his belt a large bunch of keys. It came upon 
me to address him in French, but remembering that this 
was a place of learning, I concluded that Latin was the more 
fitting tongue, so in Latin I spoke. 

“ I am a stranger," I said, “ from Scotland, bearing 
letters for Master Sandvoort and Master Quellinus of this 
place. I pray you to see if they can grant me an audience." 

He faced round sharply, as if this were the most ordi¬ 
nary errand in his life, and went limping across the inner 
courtyard till he disappeared from view behind a massive 
column. He returned shortly and delivered his message in 
a very tolerable imitation of the language of Caesar. 

" Their worships, Master Sandvoort and Master Quelli¬ 
nus, are free from business for the present, and will see you 
in their chambers." So bidding Nicol stay in the courtyard, 
lest he should shame me before these grave seniors (though 
'twas unlikely enough, seeing they knew no Scots), I fol¬ 
lowed the hobbling porter through the broad quadrangle, 
up a long staircase adorned with many statues set in niches 
in the wall, to a landing whence opened many doors. At 
one of them my guide knocked softly, and a harsh voice 
bade us enter. “ This is Master Sandvoort," he whispered 
in my ear, “ and I trust he be not in one of his tantrums. 
See ye speak him fair, sir." 

I found myself in a high-panelled room, filled with books, 
and with a table in front of a fireplace, whereat a man sat 
writing. He wore a skullcap of purple velvet, and the 
ordinary black gown of the doctor. His face was thin and 
hard, with lines across the brow and the heaviness below 
the eyes which all have who study overmuch. His hair 
was turning to grey, but his short, pointed beard was still 
black. He had very shaggy eyebrows, under which his 
sharp eyes shone like the points of a needle. Such was 
Master Herman Sandvoort, professor of the Latin language 
in the ancient college of Leyden. 


MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES 91 

His first question to me was in the Latin. 

“ What tongue do you speak ? ” 

I answered that I was conversant with the English, the 
French, and the Latin. 

“ Your letters, pray," he asked in French, and I took 
them from my pocket and gave them to him. 

“ Ah,” he cried, reading aloud, “ you desire to study in 
this university, and improve your acquaintance with certain 
branches of letters and philosophy. So be it. My fee is 
five crowns for attendance at my lectures. I will not abate 
one tittle of it. I will have no more poor students come 
cringing and begging to be let off with two. So understand 
my terms. Master Burnette.” 

I was both angry and surprised. Who was this man to 
address me thus ? 

“ I pray you to finish the letter,” I said curtly. 

He read on for a little while, then he lifted his head and 
looked at me with so comical an expression that I had 
almost laughed. Before, his face had been greedy and 
cold ; now it was worse, for the greed was still there, but 
the coldness had vanished and left in its place a sickly look 
of servility. 

“ Pardon me, pardon me, good Master Burnette ; I was 
in a great mistake. I had thought that you were some 
commoner from the North, and, God knows, we have plenty 
of them. I pray you forget my words. The college is most 
honoured by your presence, the nephew, or is it the son, of 
the famous Doctor Burnette. Ah, where were my eyes— 
the lord of much land, so says the letter, in the valley of the 
Tweed. Be sure, sir, that you can command all the poor 
learning that I have at my disposal. And if you have not 
already found lodging, why if you will come to my house, 
my wife and daughters will welcome you.” 

I thanked him coldly for his invitation, but refused it on 
the ground that I had already found an abode. Indeed, I 
had no wish to form the acquaintance of Vrow Sandvoort 
and her estimable daughters. He gave me much informa¬ 
tion about the hours of the lectures, the subjects which he 


92 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 


proposed to treat of, and the method of treatment; nor 
would he let me depart before I had promised to dine at his 
house. 

Outside the door I found the porter waiting for me. He 
led me across the hall to another door, the room of Master 
Quellinus, the professor of Greek. 

Here I found a different reception. A rosy-cheeked little 
man, with a paunch as great as a well-fed ox, was sitting 
on a high chair, so that his feet barely touched the ground! 
He was whistling some ditty, and busily mending his finger¬ 
nails with a little knife. 


“ Wh y» whom have we here ? ” he cried out when he 
saw me; “ another scholar, and a great one. Why, man, 
what do you at the trade, when you might be carrying a 
musket or leading a troop of pikemen ? ” 

I was tempted to answer him in his own way. 

• what do you, I asked, “ at the trade, when you 
might be the chief cook to the French king, with power to 
poison the whole nobility ? ” 

He laughed long and loudly. “ Ah, you have me there, 
more s the pity. But what though I love my dinner ? Did 
not Jacob the patriarch, and Esau, the mighty Esau though 
I have little credit by the ensample ? But come tell me 
your name, for I begin to love thee. You have a shrewd 
wit, and a pleasing presence. You may go far.” 

I gave him my letters, and when he had read them he 
came down from his perch and shook me by the hand. 

You are a Scot ” he said. “ I never knew any Scot 
but one, and he was hanged on a tree for robbing the Burgo¬ 
master s coach. I was a lad at school, and I mind me ’twas 
rare sport. So I have a kindly feeling for your nation 
though may God send you a better fate than that one But 
what do you seek to learn ? Greek? Faugh there is no 
Greek worth a straw, save Anacreon, and he is’not a patch 
upon our moderns, on Fran ? ois Villon of Paris, whose soul 

God rest, and our brave Desportes. Philosophy? Bah I 
Tis all a monstrous fraud. I have sounded all the deoths 
of it, and found them but shallows. Theology ? Tush 1 


I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART 


93 


You will learn more theology in an inn in the Morschstraat 
than in all the schools. Such are my beliefs. Put God has 
compelled me for my sins to teach the Hellenic tongue to a 
perverse generation at the small sum of five crowns. We 
study the Republic of Plato, and I trust you may find some 
profit. You will dine with me. Nay, I will take no denial. 
To-night, in my house, I will show you how a quail should 
be dressed. I have the very devil of a cook, a man who 
could dress a dry goatskin to your taste. And wine ! I 
have the best that ever came from the Rhineside and 
escaped the maw of a swinish Teuton. You will come ? ” 
I could only escape by promising, which I did with a good 
grace, for if there was little profit in Master Quellinus's 
company, there was much pleasure. 

CHAPTER II 

I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART 

The life at the college of Leyden was the most curious 
that one could well conceive; yet ere I had been there a 
week, I had begun heartily to like it. The students were 
drawn from thd four comers of Europe : Swedes, great men 
with shaggy beards and invincible courage ; neat-coated 
Germans, Dutchmen by the score, and not a few French¬ 
men, who were the dandies of the place. We all gathered 
of a morning in the dusky lecture-hall, where hung the 
portraits of the great scholars of the past, and where in the 
cobwebbed rafters there abode such a weight of dust that a 
breeze coming through the high windows would stir it and 
make the place all but dark. Nor had I fault to find with 
the worthy professors, for I found soon that Master Sand- 
voort, though a miserly churl, had vast store of Latin, and 
would expound the works of Cornelius Tacitus in a fashion 
which I could not sufficiently admire. His colleague, too, 
who was the best of good fellows in the seclusion of his 
house, in his lecture-room was dignified and severe in de- 


94 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

portment. You never saw such a change in a man. I went 
on the first morning expecting to find little hut buffoonery ; 
and lo ! to my surprise, in walks my gentleman in a stately 
gown, holding his head like an archduke’s ; and when he 
began to speak, it was with the gravest accents of precision. 
And I roundly affirm that no man ever made more good 
matter come out of Plato. He would show wherein he erred 
and wherein he was wiser than those who sought to refute 
him ; he would weigh with the nicest judgment the variae 
lectiones on each passage ; and he would illustrate all things 
with the choicest citations. In truth, I got a great wealth 
of good scholarship and sound philosophy from my squire 
of bottle and pasty. 

I was not the only Scot in Leyden, as I soon discovered ; 
for forbye that I had letters to Master Peter Wishart, who 
taught philosophy in the college, there abode in the town 
Sir James Dalrymple, afterwards my Lord Stair, the great 
lawyer, and sometime a professor in my old college, whose 
nephew I had so cruelly beaten before I bade farewell to 
Glasgow. He was a man of a grave deportment, somewhat 
bent with study, and with the look of exceeding weight on 
his face which comes to one who has shared the counsel of 
princes. There were also not a few Scots lords of lesser fame 
and lesser fortune, pensioners, many of them, on a foreign 
king, exiles from home for good and evil causes. As one 
went down the Breedestraat of a morning he could hear 
much broad Scots spoke on the causeway, and find many 
fellow-countrymen in a state ill-befitting their rank. For 
poverty was ever the curse of our nation, and I found it 
bitter to see ignoble Flemings and Dutch burghers flaunting 
in their finery, while our poor gentlemen were threadbare. 
And these folk, too, were the noblest in the land, bearing 
the proudest names, descendants of warriors and states¬ 
men—Halketts of Pitfirran, Prestons of Gorton, Stewarts, 
Hays, Sinclairs, Douglases, Hamiltons, and Grahams. It 
was their fathers and grandfathers who had won the day 
at Rijnemants, under Sir Robert Stuart, when, says 
Strada, “ Nudi pugnant Scoti multi.” They had fought to 


I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART 


95 


the death on the Kowenstyn dyke when Parma beleaguered 
Antwerp. And in all the later wars they took their share 
—Scotts of Buccleuch, Haigs of Bemersyde, Erskines, 
Grants, and Kilpatricks. In the Scots brigade in Holland 
had served John Graham of Claverhouse, as some will have 
it, the greatest soldier of our age. I saw nothing of him, 
for while I was in the Low Lands he was already riding in 
the western hills, shooting and hanging and dealing martial 
law to herds and weavers. But I saw often the gallant 
figure of that Colonel Hugh Mackay who met Claverhouse 
in that last and awful fight in the Highland pass when the 
mountaineers swept on the lowlanders like a winter storm, 
and who marched to his death long after on the field of 
Steinkirk, and fell with the words on his lips, “The will of 
the Lord be done.” This valiant soldier had made the 
Scots brigade into some semblance of that doughty 
regiment which Lord Reay commanded under the great 
Gustavus. He had driven out all the foreign admixture, 
and, by keeping it to Scotsmen of gentle blood, ren¬ 
dered it wellnigh invincible. But the pay was poor, and 
they who entered it did so for the sake of honour and for 
no notions of gain. 

But though it cheers me yet to tell of such fellows, and 
though it pleased me vastly to meet them in that distant 
land, it is not of such that I must write. As I have said, 
forbye attending the two classes of Greek and Latin, I 
resorted to the lectures of Master Wishart, who hailed from 
Fife, and had taught philosophy with much success among 
the Hollanders for some twenty years. He was well ac¬ 
quainted with my family, so what does he do but bid me to 
his house at Alphen one Saturday in the front of March. 
For he did not abide in Leyden, never having loved the 
ways of a town, but in the little village of Alphen, some seven 
miles to the north-east. 

I Accepted his bidding, for I had come there for no other 
cause than to meet and converse with men of learning and 
wisdom ; so I bade Nicol have ready the two horses, which 
I had bought, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon. One of the 





96 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

twain was a bay mare, delicately stepping, with white 
pasterns and a patch of white on her forehead. The other 
was the heavier, reserved for Nicol and what baggage I 
might seek to carry, black and deep-chested, and more 
sedate than his comrade. 

It was a clear, mild day when we set out, with no trace 
of frost, and but little cold. The roads were dry underfoot, 
and the horses stepped merrily, for they were fresh from 
long living indoors. The fields on either side were still 
bleak, but the sowers were abroad, scattering the seeds of 
the future harvest. The waters that we passed were alive 
with wild-fowl, which had wintered in the sea-marshes, and 
were now coming up to breed among the flags and rushes of 
the inland lakes. The tender green was sprouting on the 
trees, the early lark sang above the furrows, and the whole 
earth was full of the earnest of spring. 

Alphen is a straggling line of houses by a canal. They 
are all well sized, and even with some pretension to genti¬ 
lity, with long gardens sloping to the water, and shady 
coverts of trees. Master Wishart’s stood in the extreme 
end, apart from the rest, low-built, with a doorway with 
stuccoed pilasters. It was a place very pleasant to look 
upon, and save for its flatness, I could have found it in my 
heart to choose it for a habitation. But I am hill-bred, and 
must have rough, craggy land near me, else I weary of the 
finest dwelling. Master Wishart dwelt here, since he had 
ever a passion for the growing of rare flowers, and could 
indulge it better here than in the town of Leyden. He was 
used to drive in every second day in his great coach, for he 
lectured but three times a week. 

A serving-man took my horse from me, and, along with 
Nicol, led them to the stable, having directed me where, in 
the garden, I should find my host. I opened a gate in a 
quickset hedge, and entered upon the most beautiful plea¬ 
sure-ground that I had ever beheld. A wide, well-ordered 
lawn stretched straitly down to the very brink of the canal, 
and though, as was natural at that season of the year, the 
grass had not come to its proper greenness, yet it gave 


I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART 97 

promise of great smoothness and verdure. To the 
side of this, again, there ran a belt of low wood, be¬ 
tween which and the house was a green all laid out into 
flower beds, bright even at that early time with hyacinths 
and jonquils. Below this the low wood began again, and 
continued to the borders of the garden, full of the most 
delightsome alleys and shady walks. From one of these 
I heard voices, and going in that direction, I came of a 
sudden to a handsome arbour, at the side of which flowered 
the winter-jasmine, and around the door of which, so mild 
was the day, some half-dozen men were sitting. 

My host. Master Wishart, was a short, spare man, with 
a long face adorned with a well-trimmed beard. He had 
the most monstrous heavy brows that I had ever seen, 
greater even than those of our Master Sandeman, of whom 
the students were wont to say that his eyebrows were 
heather-besoms. His eyes twinkled merrily when he spoke, 
and but for his great forehead no one might have guessed 
that he stood in the presence of one of the most noted of 
our school-men. 

He rose and greeted me heartily, bidding me all welcome 
to Alphen, saying that he loved to see the sight of a Scots 
face, for was he not an exile here like the Jews by the waters 
of Babylon ? “ This is Master John Burnet of Barns,” said 

he, presenting me to a very grave and comely man some 
ten years my senior, “ who has come all the way from Tweed- 
side to drink at our Pierian Spring.” The other greeted 
me, looked kindly at me for a second, and then asked me 
some question of my family ; and finding that a second 
cousin of his own on his mother’s side had once married one 
of my race, immediately became very gracious, and con¬ 
descended to tell me his opinions of the land, which were 
none so good. He was, as I did not know till later. Sir 
William Crichtoun of Bourhope : that Sir William who in 
after-times was slain in the rout at Cromdale when the 
forces of Buchan and Cannon were caught unawares on the 
hillside. 

I had leisure now to look around me at the others, and 

D 


98 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

a motley group they were. There was Quentin Markelboch, 
the famous physician of Leyden, who had been pointed out 
to me in the street some days before, a little, round-bellied 
man with an eye of wondrous shrewdness. There was like¬ 
wise Master Jardinius, who had lectured on philosophy at 
one time in the college, but had now grown too old for aught 
save sitting in the sun and drinking Schiedam—which, as 
some said, was no great pity. But the one I most marked 
was a little, fiery : eyed, nervous man, Pieter van Mieris by 
name, own cousin to the painter, and one who lived for 
nothing else than to fight abstruse metaphysical quarrels in 
defence of religion, which he believed to be in great peril 
from men of learning, and, but for his exertions on its behalf, 
to be unable to exist. It was he who first addressed me. 

“ I have heard that the true religion is wondrous pure in 
your land, Master Burnet, and that men yet worship God in 
simple fashion, and believe in Him without subtleties. Is 
that so, may I beg of you to tell me? ” 

“ Ay,” I answered, “ doubtless they do, when they wor¬ 
ship Him at all.” , 

“ Then the most pernicious heresy of the pervert Armi- 
nius has not yet penetrated to your shores, I trust, nor 
Pelagianism, which, of old, was the devil’s wile for simple 
souls ? ” 

“ I have never heard of their names,” I answered bluntly. 
“We folk in Scotland keep to our own ways, and like little 
to import aught foreign, be it heresy or strong ale.” 

“ Then,” said my inquisitor triumphantly, “ you are not 
yet tainted with that most vile and pernicious heresy of all, 
with which one Baruch Spinoza, of accursed memory, has 
tainted this land ? ” 

I roused myself at the name, for this was one I had heard 
often within the past few weeks, and I had a great desire to 
find out for myself the truth of his philosophy. 

“ I am ashamed to confess,” I said, “ that I have read 
none of his writings, that I scarcely know his name. But I 
would be enlightened in the matter.” 

“ Far be it from me,” said the little man earnestly, " to 


I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART 


99 


corrupt the heart of any man with so pernicious a doctrine. 
Rather close thy ears, young man, when you hear any one 
speak his name, and pray to God to keep you from danger. 
Tis the falsest admixture of the Jewish heresy with the scum 
of ancient philosophy, the vain imaginings of man stirred 
up by the Evil One. The man who made it is dead, and 
gone to his account, but I would that the worthy magis¬ 
trates had seen fit to gibbet him for a warning to all the 
fickle and light-minded. Faugh, I cannot bear to pollute 
my mouth with his name.” 

And here a new voice spoke. 

“ The man of whom you speak was so great that little 
minds are unable to comprehend him. He is dead, and has 
doubtless long since learned the truth which he sought so 
earnestly in life. I am a stranger, and I little thought to 
hear any Hollander speak ill of Baruch Spinoza, for 
though God, in his mercy, has given many good gifts to 
this land, He has never given a greater than him. I am no 
follower of his, as they who know me will bear witness, but 
I firmly believe that when men have grown wiser and see 
more clearly, his name will shine as one of the lights of our 
time, brighter, may be, even than the great Cartesius.” 

The speaker was but newly come, and had been talking 
with my host when he heard the declamation of Master van 
Mieris. I turned to look at him and found a tall, comely 
man, delicately featured, but with a chin as grim as a 
marshal’s. He stood amid the crowd of us with such an 
easy carriage of dignity and breeding that one and aU 
looked at him in admiration. His broad, high brow was 
marked with many lines, as if he had schemed and medi¬ 
tated much. He was dressed in the pink of the fashion, and 
in his gestures and tones I fancied I discerned something 
courtierlike, as of a man who had travelled and seen much 
of courts and kingships. He spoke so modestly, and withal 
so wisely, that the unhappy Pieter looked wofully crest¬ 
fallen, and would not utter another word. 

A minute later, finding Master Wishart at hand, I plucked 
him by the sleeve. 


100 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Tell me, who is that man there, the one who spoke ? ” 

" Ah,” said he, “ you do not know him, perhaps you do 
not know his name ; but be sure that when you are old you 
will look back upon this day with pleasure, and thank 
Providence for bringing you within sight of such a man. 
That is the great Gottfried Leibnitz, who was been dwelling 
for a short space in London, and now goes to Hanover as 
Duke Frederick’s councillor.” 

But just at this moment all thoughts of philosophy and 
philosophers were banished from my mind by the sudden 
arrival of a new guest. This was no other than the worthy 
professor of Greek, Master Quellinus, who came in arrayed 
in the coarsest clothes, with a gigantic basket suspended over 
his shoulders by a strap, and a rod like a weaver’s beam in 
his hand. In truth the little man presented a curious sight. 
For the great rod would not stay balanced on his shoulders, 
but must ever slip upward and seriously endanger the 
equipoise of its owner. His boots were very wide and 
splashed with mud, and round the broad-brimmed hat 
which he wore I discerned many lengths of horsehair. My 
heart warmed to the man, for I perceived he was a fellow- 
fisherman, and, in that strange place, it was the next best 
thing to being a fellow Scot. 

He greeted us with great joviality. " A good day to you, 
my masters,” he cried ; “ and God send you the ease which 
you love. Here have I been bearing the heat and burden 
of the day, all in order that lazy folk should have carp to 
eat when they wish it. Gad, I am tired and wet and dirty, 
this last beyond expression. For Heaven’s sake. Master 
Wishart, take me where I may clean myself.” 

The host led the fisherman away, and soon he returned, 
spruce and smiling once more. He sat down heavily on a 
seat beside me. “ Now, Master Burnet,” says he, “ you 
must not think it unworthy of a learned Grecian to follow 
the sport of the angle, for did not the most famous of 
their writers praise it, not to speak of the example of the 
Apostles ? ” 

^ I tried hard to think if this were true. 


I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART ioi 


“ Homer, at any rate,” I urged, “ had no great opinion of 
fish and their catchers, though that was the worse for Homer, 
for I am an angler myself, and can understand your likings.” 

“ Then I will have your hand on it,” said he, “ and may 
Homer go to the devil. But Theocritus and Oppian, 
ay, even Plato, mention it without disrespect, and does 
not Horace himself say * Piscemur * ? Surely we have 
authority.” 

But this was all the taste I had of my preceptor's con¬ 
versation, for he had been walking all day in miry ways, and 
his limbs were tired : nor was I surprised to see his head soon 
sink forward on his breast; and in a trice he was sleeping 
the sleep of the just and labouring man. 

And now we were joined by a newcomer, no less than 
Mistress Kate Wishart, as pretty a lass as you will see in a 
day's journey. She had been nurtured by her|father amid 
an aroma of learning, and, truly, for a maid, she was 
wondrous learned, and would dispute and cite instances 
with a fine grace and a skill which astonished all. To me, 
who am country-bred and a trifle over-fastidious, she seemed 
a thought pedantic and proud of her knowledge ; but what 
is hateful in a hard-featured woman is to be pardoned in a 
fresh lass. Her father brought me to her and presented me, 
which she acknowledged with a curtsy which became her 
mightMy ; but I spoke not two words to her, for the old 
man led me away down one of the alleys among the trees. 

“ Rate'll look after thae auld dotterels,” said he, speaking 
in the broadest Scots : “ I brocht her out that I micht get a 
word wi’ ye my lane, for I’m fair deein' for news frae the 
auld country. First of a’, how is Saunders Blackett at 
Peebles ? Him and me were aince weel acquant.” And 
when I had told him, he ran off into a string of inquiries 
about many folk whom I knew, and whom he once had 
known, which I answered according to my ability. 

“ And now,” he says, “ I’ve bidden twa-three o' the 
officers o’ the Scots brigade to supper the nicht, so ye’ll see 
some guid Scots physiogs after thae fosy Dutchmen. Ye’ll 
maybe ken some o' them.” 


102 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

I thanked him for his consideration, and after I had 
answered his many questions, we returned to the others, 
whom I found busily arguing some point in divinity, with 
Mistress Kate very disgusted in their midst. 

“ Gang intil the "house wi’ my dochter, John,” said Master 
Wishart, and, giving her my arm, I did as I was bid, while 
the others straggled after in twos and threes. 

CHAPTER III 

THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY 

My first thought on entering the supper-room was one of 
amazement. The owner of the house, whom I had taken 
to be a man of simple tastes, here proved himself to be a 
very Caliph for magnificence. Many choice paintings looked 
down at us from the sides, richly framed, and fitting into 
recesses in the panelled walls. The floor was laid with 
bright-dyed rugs and carpets of Venetian stuff, and the 
chairs and couches were of finely carven wood. The whole 
was lit with a long line of waxen candles in silver sconces, 
which disputed the sovereignty with the departing daylight. 
But the choicest sight was the table which was laden, nay 
heaped, with rich dishes and rare meats, while in the glass 
and metal flagons the wine danced and flamed. I was of 
country-bred habits, and the display at first all but took the 
breath from me ; indeed it was not a little time ere I could 
take my eyes from it and turn them on the assembled guests. 

Those who had not been present in the garden were 
gathered at the lower end of the room, whither the master 
of the place betook himself to greet them. I marked two 
or three of the burgher folk by their dress and well-filled 
bellies, contrasting stangely with the lean figure of a 
minister who stood among them clothed in some decent 
dark stuff, and wearing white bands ostentatiously. There 
were also some of the officers in the Scots regiment, at least 
of that portion of it which was then lying at Leyden. Their 
dress was sober compared with the richness of such soldiery 


THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY 103 


as I had seen in my own land, but against the attire of the 
citizens, it was gaudiness itself. 

I found myself sitting close to the head of the table, on 
the right hand of my host, betwixt a portly doctor of laws 
and my worthy Master Quellinus. This latter was now all 
but recovered from his fatigue, having slept soundly in the 
arbour. He was in a high good humour at the sight of the 
many varied dishes before him, and cried out their merits 
to me in a loud, excited tone, which made my cheeks burn. 
“ There/' he cried, “ there is the dish I love above all 
others. ’Tis hashed venison with young herbs, and sour 
wine for a relish. Ah, I have already enjoyed it in antici¬ 
pation. In a few seconds I shall have enjoyed it in reality. 
Therefore I argue I have gained two pleasures from it, 
whereas men of no imagination have but one. And, God 
bless my eyes ! do I see a plate of stewed eels over there 
before that thick man in the brown coat ? Gad ! I fear 
he will devour them all himself, for he looks to have capacity 
and judgment. Plague take him, I am in a very torment 
of anxiety. Prithee, my good John, seek out a servant and 
bid him bring it over here." I know not how far he might 
have gone, had not all talking been put an end to by the 
minister arising and saying a lengthy Latin grace. In the 
midst of it I stole a glance at my neighbour, and his face 
wore so comical an expression of mingled disgust and eager¬ 
ness that I could scarcely refrain from laughing. But all 
did not conduct themselves so well, for there was a great 
disputation going on among some of the regiment which 
much hindered the effect of the minister’s Latin. Indeed, I 
believe had he spoken another dozen words, the patience of 
some would have gone altogether. 

" Now," said Master Wishart from the head of the table, 
“ I trust, gentlemen, that ye may find the entertainment to 
your liking. Fall to heartily, for this weather gives a keen 
edge to the appetite. Occupet extremum scabies, as Hora- 
tius hath it; which being translated into the vulgar idiom 
is ‘ Deil tak the hinmost.’ Know you that proverb, John ? 
Come, Master Quellinus, set to, man, ye’ve had a serious 


104 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

day’s work, and our fleshly tabernacles will not subsist on 
nothing,” adding in an undertone to me, “ though it’s little 
pressing ye need, for to press ye to eat is like giving a shog 
to a cairt that’s fa’in ower the Castle Rock.” 

I paid little heed to Master Quellinus’s conversation, 
which ran chiefly on viands, or to that of my left-hand 
neighbour, whose mouth was too full for words. But I 
found great entertainment in watching the faces and listen¬ 
ing to the speech of some of the other guests. The table 
was wide and the light dim, so that I had much ado to make 
out clearly those opposite me. I marked Mistress Kate, 
very daintily dressed, talking gaily to some one at her side. 

“ Well, to tell you the truth, my dear Mistress Kate, this 
land of yours is not very much to my liking. To be sure a 
soldier is contented wherever his duty calls him, but there 
is no fighting to be done, and the sport is not what I have 
found it elsewhere. I am in such a devilish strict place 
that, Gad, I cannot have a game with a fat citizen without 
having to listen to a rigmarole of half an hour’s duration on 
the next morning. There is so much psalm-singing in the 
place that an honest gentleman can scarcely raise a merry 
song without having his voice stopped by half a dozen sour¬ 
faced knaves. ’Faith, I wish I were back in my own land, 
where there is some work for a cavalier. There is but one 
thing that I should except,” and he bowed low to his neigh¬ 
bour, “ the women, who are as beautiful as the men-folk are 
hideous. Though, in truth, I believe that the most lovely 
of them all is a countrywoman of my own ” ; and again he 
made her a fine bow. 

The voice and the tone were strangely familiar, but for 
the life of me, I could not give them a name. I could only 
note that the man was a big, squarely-made fellow, and 
that he seemed to be in a mind to make love to his host’s 
daughter. She made some blushing reply to his compli¬ 
ments, and then, as luck would have it, a servant set a light 
between us, and the faces of both were revealed clearly to me. 

I sat bolt upright in my chair with sheer astonishment. 
For there, dressed in the habiliments of the Scots regiment, 


THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY 105 

and bearing himself with all his old braggadocio, sat my 
cousin Gilbert. 

Then I remembered how I had heard that he had gone 
abroad to some foreign service, partly to escape the conse¬ 
quences of some scrapes into which he had fallen, partly to 
get rid of his many debts. And here he was, coming to the 
one place in Europe to which I had chosen to go, and meet¬ 
ing me at the one table which I had chosen to frequent. In 
that moment I felt as if the man before me were bound up 
in some sinister way with my own life. 

Almost at the same instant he turned his eyes upon me, 
and we stared in each other’s face. I saw him start, bend 
his head toward his companion and ask some question. I 
judged it to be some query about my name and doings, for 
the next moment he looked over to me and accosted me 
with a great semblance of hilarity. 

“ What,” he cries. “ Do I see my cousin John ? I had 
not dared to hope for such a welcome meeting. How came 
you here ? ” And he asked me a string of questions. 

I answered shortly and with no great cordiality, for I still 
remembered the doings in Tweeddale, and my heart was still 
sore in the matter of my father’s death. Forbye this, Gilbert 
spoke with not a little covert scorn in his tone, which I, 
who knew his ways well, was not slow to detect. It nettled 
me to think that I was once more to be made to endure the 
pleasantries of my cousin. 

“ And how goes all in Tweeddale, my dear cousin ? ” said 
he. “ I condole with you on your father’s death. Ah, he 
was a good man indeed, and there are few like him nowadays. 
And how does Tam Todd, my friend, who has such a thick 
skull and merciless arm ? And ah, I forgot! Pray forgive 
my neglect. How is fair Mistress Marjory, the coy maid 
who would have none of my courtesies ? ” 

The amazing impudence of the fellow staggered me. It 
almost passed belief that he should speak thus of my father 
whose death had lain so heavily at his door. This I might 
have pardoned ; but that at a public table he should talk 
thus of my love irritated me beyond measure. I acted as I 



io6 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

do always when thus angered : I gave him a short answer 
and fell into a state of moody disquietude. 

Meanwhile my cousin, with all the gallantry in the world, 
kept whispering his flatteries into the pretty ears of Mis¬ 
tress Kate. This was ever Gilbert’s way. He would make 
love to every tavern wench and kiss every village lass on his 
course. 'Twas a thing I never could do. I take no credit 
for the omission, for it is but the way God makes a man. 
Whenever I felt in the way to trying it, there was always 
Marjory’s face to come before my eyes and make me think 
shame of myself. 

As I sat and watched these twain I had no eyes for any 
other. The very sight of Gilbert brought back to me all 
my boyhood in Tweedside, and a crowd of memories came 
surging in upon me. I fancied, too, that there was some¬ 
thing of Marjory in the little graceful head at my cousin's 
elbow, and the musical, quick speech. I felt wretchedly 
jealous of him, God knows why ; for the sight of him revived 
any old fragments which had long lain lurking in the comers 
of my mind ; and as he chatted gaily to the woman at his 
side, I had mind of that evening at Bams when I, just re¬ 
turned from Glasgow college, first felt the lust of possession. 
I sat and moodily sipped my wine. Why had I ever left 
my own land and suffered my lady to be exposed to mani¬ 
fold perils ? For with the first dawnings of jealousy and 
anger came a gnawing anxiety. I had never felt such a 
sickness for home before, and I cursed the man who had 
come to ruin my peace of mind. Yet my feeling toward my 
cousin was not that of hatred ; indeed I could not refrain 
from a certain pity for the man, for I discerned in him much 
noble quality, and was he not of my own blood ? 

“ Come now,” I heard Mistress Kate simper, “ I do not 
believe that tale of any one, and above all, of him ; for a 
soberer does not live. Fie, fie, Master Gilbert, I took you 
for a more generous man.” 

" On my faith, my dear, it is true,” replied my cousin. 
" For all his docile looks, he is as fond of a game as the rest 
of us.” 


THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY 107 

Now I guessed that my frolicsome cousin had been tra¬ 
ducing me to the fair Kate, and I grew not a little hot. But 
his next word changed my heat into fierce anger. For my 
cousin continued : 

“ What saith the Latin poet ? ” and he quoted a couplet 
from Martial—a jest at the usual amusements of the seem¬ 
ingly decent man. 

I know not where he had got hold of it, for he was no 
scholar ; but it was full of the exceeding grossness which is 
scarcely to be found outside that poet. He thought, I could 
guess, that the girl understood no Latin, but, as I knew, she 
had a special proficiency in that tongue. She understood 
the jest only too well. A deep blush grew over her face 
from her delicate throat to the very borders of her hair. 
’Twas just in such a way that Marjory had looked when I 
first told her my love ; ’twas in such a fashion she had bade 
me farewell. The thought of her raised a great storm of 
passion in my heart against any one who would dare thus 
to put a woman to shame. I strove hard to curb it, but I 
felt with each second that it would overmaster me. 

“ Well, John, what think you of my Latinity ? ” asked 
my cousin from over the table. 

“ I think, I think,” I cried, “ that you are a damned 
scurrilous fellow, a paillard, a hound ; ’fore God, Gilbert, I 
will make you smart for this,” and, ere I well knew what I 
did, I had seized my glass and hurled it at his head. 

It struck him on the cheek, scratching the skin, but doing 
little hurt. 

In a trice he was on his feet with his hand at his sword. 
One half the table rose and stared at the two of us, while 
Master Wishart left the head and came rushing to the back 
of my chair. As for myself, I felt such desperate shame at 
my conduct that I knew not what to do. I had now made 
a fool of myself in downright earnest. I felt my cheek 
tingling and flaming, but I could do naught but look before 
me. 

Then my cousin did a thing which gave him great honour, 
and completed my shame ; for bridling his anger, as I saw 


io8 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

with a mighty effort, he said calmly, though his arms were 
quivering with rage: 

“ I would ask you to be more careful in your use of 
glasses. See, yours has flown right over to me and played 
havoc with my cheek. 'Faith, it is no light duty to sup 
opposite you, mon ami. But, indeed, gentlemen," and 
he bowed to the company, “ 'twas but an unfortunate 
mischance." 

At this all sat down again, and scarce five minutes after, 
Gilbert rose to leave, and with him the other gentlemen of 
his regiment. Master Wishart bade him sit down again, for 
the night was yet young, but my cousin would not be 
persuaded. He nodded carelessly to me, kissed his hand to 
pretty Mistress Kate, and swaggered out. 

I sat dazed and meditative. I was raw to many things, 
but I knew well that Gilbert was not the man to sit down 
under such an affront. He had shielded me for his own 
reasons, of which I guessed that family pride was not the 
least; but he would seek a meeting with all dispatch. And, 
in truth, I was not averse to it, for I had many accounts to 
settle with.lmy dear cousin. I fell to thinking about the 
details of the matter. In all likelihood he would come on 
the Monday, for the Sabbath was a day of too strict pro¬ 
priety in this land as in my own, to allow of the settling 
of any such business. Well, come when he might, I should 
be ready ; and I rose from the table, for the sooner I was 
back in Leyden the better. 

I took farewell of my host, and he could not refrain from 
whispering in my ear at parting : “ Jock, Jock, my man, 
ye've made a bonny mess o’t. Ye'll hae to fecht for it, 
and see ye dae't weel." 

Nicol was waiting at the gate with the horses, and, to¬ 
gether, we turned on our homeward way. 


OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD 109 
CHAPTER IV 

OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD 

We rode in silence for maybe half a mile, while I turned 
over the events of the evening in my mind and tried to find 
some way out of the difficulties in which, by my own folly, 
I found myself placed. Nicol looked steadfastly before him 
and said never a word. By and by I found the desire for 
some one to speak with so overpowering that 1 up and asked 
him if he had heard aught of the events of the evening. 

“ Ay, sir,” said he, “ I heard ye had some kind o’ stra- 
mash, but that was a’. I trust ye're weel oot o’t.” 

“ Have you heard of my cousin Gilbert ? ” I asked. 

” The wastland lad wha used to come aboot the Bams ? 
Oh, aye ! I’ve heard o' him.” 

" I flung a glass at his face to-night,” said I. 

“ I hope, sir, that he flung anither at yoursel ? ” he asked 
anxiously. 

“ No. He swallowed the insult and left soon after. He 
is not the man to let me off so easily.” 

“ Whew,” said Nicol, “ but that's bad. Wad ye mind, 
Laird, if I rode on afore ye ? ” 

“ Why ? ” I asked. 

“ Cousins and sodger-folk are kittle cattle,” said he. '* I 
wadna wonder noo but that Maister Gilbert were ahint a 
dyke. I’ve heard tell o’ some o' his pliskies in his ain land, 
and he’s no the lad to let a midge stick in his throat.” 

I drew up my horse angrily. 

" Nicol,” I cried, “ you are intolerable. My cousin is a 
gentleman of birth, and do you think he is the man to kill 
from a dyke-side ? Fie on you, you have the notions of a 
common roost-robber.” , 

“ Weel, away then, my lord,” cries he. “ So be it; but 
I've little faith in your Gilberts for a’ their gentrice. I ken 
their breed ower weel. But I maun ride afore ye, for there 
are some gey rough bits on the road, and I’m a wee bit 
mair sure in the saddle than yoursel, wi’ a’ respect to your 
lairdship.” 


no JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

So the wilful fellow must needs ride before me, looking 
sharply to the right and left as though we were in far Mus¬ 
covy instead of peaceful Holland. 

As for me, I felt in no humour to listen to my servant's 
tales or do aught than think dolefully on my own matters. 
The sight of my cousin and of Mistress Kate had made me 
sore sick for home, and I could have found it in my heart 
once and again to take ship at the next sailing for Leith. 
But these thoughts I choked down, for I felt that they were 
unbecoming to any man. Yet I longed for Marjory as 
never lover longed for his mistress. Her bright hair was 
ever before my sight, and her last words on that February 
evening rang always in my head. I prayed to God to watch 
over her as I rode through the stiff poplars on the way to 
Leyden. 

As for my quarrel, I cared not a straw for Gilbert and his 
ill-will, it having never been my nature to be timorous 
toward men. Nay, I looked forward to meeting him with 
no little pleasure, for it had long been an open question 
which of the twain was best at the sword-play. 

“ Maister John," said Nicol, suddenly turning round, 
“ I saw twae men creeping roond thae scrunts o’ trees. I 
wis they maunna be after ony ill." We were by this time 
nearing a black, inhospitable part of the land, where the 
road ran across a moor all covered with ferns and rushes 
and old trunks of trees. 

“ Ride on," said I; “if we turned for every man that 
crosses the path, we should never leave our own threshold. 

He did as he was ordered, and our horses being put to the 
canter, covered the ground gallantly, and our stirrup-chains 
clinked in the silent night. 

Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw Nicol fling himself 
back in the saddle while his horse stumbled violently for¬ 
ward. It was one of the most ingenious feats of horseman¬ 
ship that I have ever witnessed. The beast stood quiver¬ 
ing, his ears erect with fright, while I rode alongside. 

“ For God’s sake, sir, take care," Nicol cried. “ There's 
some damned thing ower the road, and if I hadna been on 


OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD hi 


the watch it wad hae been a’ ower wi’ yae guid man. 
Watch, for ye may get a shot in your belly any meenute.” 

Now, as it chanced, it was that lively canter which saved 
us, for the rogues who had set the trap had retired a good 
way, not expecting us so early. At the sound of the stum¬ 
ble they came rushing up from among the fern, and, ere I 
knew, a pistol shot cracked past my ears, and another and 
another. 

Two went wide ; one hit my horse on the ear and made 
him unmanageable, so that I sat there with my beast 
plunging and kicking, at the mercy of whosoever had a 
fourth pistol. 

Nicol spoke not a word, but turning his horse, dashed 
forward in the direction whence the shots had come. As it 
fell out, it was the best thing that any one could have done, 
for the robbers, not expecting any such assault, were pre¬ 
paring to fire again. As it was, the forefeet of the horse 
took one villain on the chest, knocking him senseless and 
wellnigh trampling the life out of him. A second gripped 
Nicol by the sleeve, and attempted to drag him from the 
saddle; which plan would doubtless have succeeded had 
not my servant, pulling the pistol (which was not loaded) 
from his holsters, presented it at the man’s head with such 
effect that the fellow in fear of his life let go and fled across 
the moor. 

By this time I had reduced my own animal to something 
like submission. I rode after Nicol and came up just in 
time to see the third man of the band (there were but three ; 
for doubtless they trusted to their trap for unhorsing if not 
stunning us) engaged in a desperate struggle. Nicol had 
him by the throat with one hand and was endeavouring to 
squeeze the breath out of him, while he in turn had his 
opponent by the other arm, which he was twisting cruelly. 
Had my servant been on foot the matter would soon have 
ended, for the throat fared badly which those long wiry 
hands once encircled ; but being on horseback he dared not 
tean forward lest he should lose his seat. My appearance 
settled it; for the robber, freeing himself at one desperate 


112 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

leap, made off at the top of his speed, leaving his pistols 
behind him. There remained but the one whom Nicol’s 
horse had deprived of his senses. 

Unfortunately the blow had not been a very severe one, 
for he was not long in coming to himself. There was some 
water in a little stagnant pool near at hand which Nicol 
dashed in his face, and in a little the man opened his eyes 
and looked up. 

At the sight of us he started, and the events of the past 
half hour came back to his memory. Then a look of sullen, 
obstinate anger came into his face, and he lay still, waiting 
for events to take their course. 

“ Who are you ? ” I asked. 

He made no answer. 

I repeated the question several times, and still the man 
kept his silence. 

“ Ye donnert scoondrel,” cried Nicol, “ tell us whae ye 
are, or ye’ll hang the mom on the gallows-hill at Leyden.” 

Still the fellow would not speak. 

“ Let’s tie him up,” said Nicol, “ and I’ll ride wi’ him on 
the horse afore me. He’ll get justice when we win to the 
toun.” 

But this was not my policy. I had other things to think 
of than bringing marauders to trial. A sudden thought 
struck me. 

“ I will try him another way,” said I to Nicol. “ Do you 
stand aside.” 

The man lay on the ground where my servant’s horse 
had thrown him, with a belt round his legs, and his arms 
knotted together. I went up to him, and stood over. 

“ Do you know who I am ? ” I asked sternly, in as tragic 
a voice as I could assume. 

The man stared sulkily, but did not speak. 

"You fool,” I cried, “ do you think that thus you will 
circumvent me ? Know that I am the great doctor, 
Joannes Burnetus of Lugdunum, skilled in all arts of earth 
and heaven, able to tell divinations and prophecies, learned 
in all magic and witchery. I know all that thou hast done 


OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD 113 

since thy birth, and thy father and grandsire before thee, 
all the wickedness which shall entitle thee to eternal dam¬ 
nation in that place which the Devil is even now preparing 
for thee. Yea, I can tell thee the very death which thou 
shalt die-" 

" Stop, stop/’ cried the fellow, " O most learned sir, spare 
me. I know thou knowest all things. I confess my sins, 
and oh, I promise you I shall mend my ways. Stop,I pray." 

“ There is still one ray of hope for thee," said I, “ but 
I cannot give my word that thou shalt ever gain it, for thou 
hast advanced too far in sin already. But yet thou mayest 
escape, and there is but one way to set about it—namely, 
to tell me of all thy wickedness. I adjure thee, by the 
sacred sign Tekel, which the Chaldaeans used of old ; by 
Men, which was the sign of the Egyptians ; by the Eikon 
of the Greeks ; by the Lar of the Romans. I summon thee 
by the holy names of God, Tetragrammaton, Adonay, Algra- 
may, Saday, Sabaoth, Planaboth, Panthon, Craton, Neup- 
maton, Deus, Homo,\Omnipotens; by Asmaih, the name of the 
Evil One, who is lord over thee and my slave—I summon 
thee to tell me all thy deeds.” 

The man was frightened past all telling. He tried to 
crawl to my knees, and began a recital of all manner of 
crimes and peccadilloes, from his boyhood till the present 
hour. I listened without interest. 

“ Had any Scot a part with thee in this night’s work ? " 
I asked. 

“ No, there was none. There were but Bol and Delvaux 
beside myself, both Dutch born and bred." 

My mind was lightened. I never really believed my 
cousin to have had any part in such a matter, but I was 
glad to know it for truth. 

" You may go now," I said, " go and repent, and may 
God bless thee with all his fire if thou turnest thy hand to 
evil again. By the by, thy name ? I must have if from 
thy own lips." 

“ Jan Hamman, your lordship," said he. 

" Well, God pity thee, Jan Hamman, if ever I lay my 
hand on thee again. Be off now." 



H4 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

He was off in a twinkling, running for his very life. Nicol 
and I remounted, and rode onward, coming to Leyden at 
the hour of one on the Sabbath morning—a thing which I 
much regretted. 


CHAPTER V 

THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH 

I slept late on the next morning, so that it was near nine 
o’clock ere I was up and dressed. By the time that I broke 
my fast I had had some leisure to reflect upon the events of 
the preceding night and the consequences which should 
ensue. Nicol came to me as soon as the meal was over 
and together we sat down to consult. 

" This is the Sabbath, your honour,” said Nicol, "so ye 
may consider yoursel free for the day at ony rate.” 

" Not so free,” said I, for I knew my cousin Gilbert. 
" The men I’ve to deal with have no more respect for the 
Lord’s day than you have for a Popish fast, so we must put 
that out of account.” 

“ Weel, weel,” said Nicol, " if that’s sae it maun be sae. 
Will ye gang oot wi’ him the day ? ” 

"No,” said I, " not that I am caring for the day, for you 
mind the proverb, ' The better the day the better the 
work,’ but, being in a foreign land, I am loath to break with 
the customs of my country. So well keep the Sabbath, 
Nicol, my lad, and let Gilbert whistle.” 

Now I would not have him who may read this narrative 
think, from my conduct on this occasion that I was whig- 
gishly inclined, for, indeed, I cared naught about such little 
matters. I would have a man use the Sabbath like any 
other day, saving that, as it seems to me, it is a day which 
may profitably be used for serious reading and meditation. 
But I was ever of a curious disposition, liking to be always 
in mind of Tweeddale and the folk there, so that I kept the 
Sabbath during my life abroad as strictly as a covenanting 
minister on the moors of Ayr. 


THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH 


115 

99 Weel, Laird, that means ye’ll no see the body though he 
comes,” said Nicol, “ and God help me, if ye dae that 
there’ll be a terrible stramash at the street door. I’se war¬ 
rant auld Mistress Vanderdecker ’ll get her ribs knockit 
in if she tries to keep them oot.” 

" They can make all the noise they please,” said I hotly, 
99 but if it comes to that the two of us are as good as their 
bit officers. I ask for nothing better than to take some of 
the pride out of Gilbert’s friends with the flat of my sword. 
Then if they come to-day and are refused entrance, they 
will come to-morrow, and all will be well.” 

“ Then what am I to dae ? When the bodies come to the 
door, I’m to say, ‘ His lordship’s compliments, but his lord¬ 
ship’s busy keeping the Sabbath in his upper chamber, and 
if ye will come back the morn he’ll look into your claims.’ 
’Faith, it’s awfu’ like auld Sanders Blackett, the lawyer at 
Peebles, when I gaed to him seeking the law o’ the miller o’ 
Rachan. It was about nine o’clock yae winter’s nicht when 
I got there, and Sanders was at supper. He stappit his 
heid oot o’ the window and, says he, ‘ Gang awa’, my man, 
and come back the morn. I’m busy takin’ the books.’ 
But I saw by the een o’ him that he was daein’ nae siccan 
thing. ‘ Oh,’ says I, ‘if ye ca’ kippered saumon and 
schnapps the books, I’m content. I’ll just come in and help 
ye to tak them tae.’ But he says verra angry, ‘ Go away, 
ye impious man, lest the judgment of Heaven light upon 
you. I’ve godly Maister Clovenclaws assisting me in the 
solemn ordinance.’ ‘ Awa’ wi’ your Clovenclaws,’ says I, 
* I’ve come ten mile to speak wi’ ye, and I’ll no gang hame 
wi’oot it.’ But I was just thinkin’ I would have to gang 
back after a’, when a voice comes frae the inside, ‘ Sanders, 
ye limb o’ the deil, whaur’s the sugar ? ’ I kenned Maister 
Clovenclaws’ voice ower weel, so Sanders begins to think 
that it wadna dae to let it be telled a’ ower the toun that 
him and the minister had been birling at the wine thegither. 
So ‘ Come in, Maister Plenderleith,’ says he verra cannily, 
and in I gaed, and sic a nicht’s drinking I never saw. I put 
Sanders in his bed, honest man, about twae o’clock i’ the 


ii6 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

morning, and syne Clovenclaws and me gaed at it till day- 
licht. I wantit to see the body below the table afore I gaed, 
and he wantit to see me, so we sat at it till I was fain to 
drap for very decency’s sake. So what does the man dae 
but lift me on his shouther and walk as straucht ower to 
the manse as if he were new oot o’ his bed ; and there he 
gied me some guid advice about no presumin’ to contend wi’ 
my superiors, and let me oot at a back door. ’Faith, it was 
an awfu’ time.” 

“ You will say to them that I am busy with other work, 
and that I will be glad to see them to-morrow about the 
matter they know of. Most like they will go away quietly, 
and if they do not it will be the worse for their own skins. 
You take my meaning ? ” 

“ I’ll dae your orders, sir, to the letter,” said Nicol, and 
I was well aware that he would. 

I got my books out and set to work to read the gospel 
of John in Greek for my spiritual benefit, but I made little 
speed. This was mainly the fault of Nicol, who every few 
minutes came into the little room where I sat, on some 
feigned errand. I soon divined the reason, for the same 
chamber contained a great window, whence one might view 
the whole length of the narrow street wherein the house 
was situate, and even some little portion of the great 
Breedestraat at the head. It was plain that my servant 
was not a little concerned on my account. 

“ Are ye sure that your honour’s guid wi’ the small- 
swird ? ” he asked mournfully. “ If this room were a wee 
bit braider and the day no what it is I micht gie ye a lesson.” 

I did not know whether to laugh or to be angry. “ Why, 
you rascal,” I cried, “ do you know anything of these 
matters ? There are many better swordsmen than I in the 
world, but I think I am more than a match for you.” 

“ Weel,” said Nicol modestly, “ I’ve gien some folk a gey 
fricht wi’ the swird, but let that be. I’ll be blithe if ye get 
the better o’ him and a waefu’ man I’ll be if he kills ye. 
Lord, what ’ll I dae ? I’ll hae to become a sodger in this 
heathen land, or soom hame, whilk is a thing I am no capable 


THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH 


117 

o\” And he began to sing with a great affectation of grief/' 

The craw killed the pussie O, 

The craw killed the pussie O, 

The wee bit kittlin’ sat and grat 
In Jennie’s wee bit hoosie O. 

—in which elegant rhyme the reader will observe that my 
cousin stood for the crow, I for the pussie, and my servant 
for the kittlin’. 

I laughed; but it is not seemly to stand by while your 
own servant sings a song which compares you to a cat, so I 
straightway flung a Greek lexicon at his head, and bade him 
leave the room. I much regretted the act, for it was my 
only copy of the book, Master Struybroek’s, and the best 
obtainable, and by the fall some leaves came out, and one, 
TToXv-mvdr}^ to 7ro\u7rovs has not been renewed to this day. 

After Nicol had gone I amused myself by looking out of 
the window and watching the passers-by. Some, sober 
Dutch citizens with Bibles beneath their arms and their 
goodly persons habited in decent black, were striding 
solemnly to church, while their wives and children came 
more slowly behind. Others of the lighter sort were wander¬ 
ing aimlessly on no purpose but their own pleasure, but all I 
marked were dressed out in their finest clothes. What I 
noted most of all was the greater colour in the streets than 
we have in our own land. For there, you will see little but 
blacks and drabs and browns, while here the women were 
often gaily arrayed in bright tints which gave a pleasing 
look to the causeway. 

I had not sat long when I noted two gentlemen coming 
down the alley from the Breedestraat, very finely clad, and 
with a great air of distinction in their faces. They kept the 
causeway in such a fashion that all whom they met had to 
get into the middle of the road to let them pass. I half 
guessed their errand, the more as the face of one of them 
seemed to me familiar, and I fancied that he had been one 
of the guests at the supper at Alphen. My guess was con¬ 
firmed by their coming to a halt outside the door of my 



IIS JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

lodging and attentively considering the house. Meantime 
all their actions were plain to my view from the upper 
window. 

One of them stepped forward and knocked loudly. Now 
I had bidden Nicol be ready to open to them and give my 
message. So I was not surprised when I heard the street 
door opened and the voice of my servant accosting the men. 

I know not what he said to them, but soon words grew 
high and I could see the other come forward to his comrade’s 
side. By and by the door was slammed violently, and my 
servant came tearing upstairs. His face was flushed in 
wrath. 

“ O’ a’ the insolent scoondrels I ever met, thae twae are 
the foremost. They wadna believe me when I telled them 
ye were busy. ‘ Busy at what ? ’ says the yin. ' What’s 
your concern ? ’ says I. ' If ye dinna let us up to see your 
maister in half a twinkling,’ says the ither, ‘ by God we’ll 
make ye. ” Make me ! ’ says I ; ‘ come on and try it. If 
it wasna for your mither’s sake I wad tie your necks the- 
gither.’ ” 

" Nicol,” I said, “ bring these men up. It will be better 
to see them.” My intention changed of a sudden, for I did 
not seek to carry my finicking too far. 

“ I was thinkin’ sae, your honour,” said Nicol, “ but I 
didna like to say it.” 

So in a little the two gentlemen came up the stairs and 
into my room, where I waited to receive them. 

" Gentlemen,” said I, " I believe you have some matter 
to speak of with me.” 

“ Why do you keep such scoundrelly servants, Master 
Burnet ? ” said one, whom I knew for Sir James Erskine 
of Tullo. 

“ Your business, gentlemen,” I said, seeking to have done 
with them. They were slight men, whom I could have 
dropped out of the window ; most unlike the kind of friends 
I should have thought my cousin Gilbert would have chosen. 

“ Well, if you will have our business,” said the elder, 
speaking sulkily, “ you are already aware of the unparal- 


THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH 


119 

leled insult to which a gentleman of our regiment was 
subjected at your hands ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” I said gaily, ” I had forgotten. I broke 
Gilbert’s head with a wine-glass. Does he want to ask my 
pardon ? ” 

" You seem to take the matter easily, sir,” said one 
severely. " Let me tell you that Master Gilbert Burnet 
demands that you meet him at once and give satisfaction 
with your sword.” 

“ Right,” I cried, “ I am willing. At what hour shall it 
be ? Shall we say seven o’clock to-morrow morning ? 
That is settled then ? I have no second and desire none. 
There is the length of my sword. Carry my compliments 
to my cousin, and tell him I shall be most pleased to chastise 
him at the hour we have named. And now, gentlemen, I 
have the honour to wish you a very good day,” and I bowed 
them out of the room. 

They were obviously surprised and angered by my care¬ 
less reception of their message and themselves. With faces 
as flushed as a cock’s comb they went downstairs and into 
the street, and I marked that they never once looked back, 
but marched straight on with their heads in the air. 

“ Ye’ve gien thae lads a flee in their lug,” said Nicol. " I 
wish ye may gie your cousin twae inches o’ steel in his vitals 
the morn.” 

“ Ah,” said I, “ that is a different matter. These folk 
were but dandified fools. My cousin is a man and a soldier.” 

The rest of the day I spent in walking by myself in the 
meadows beyond the college gardens, turning over many 
things in my mind. I had come to this land for study, and 
lo ! ere I well knew how, I was involved in quarrels. I felt 
something of a feeling of shame in the matter, for the thing 
had been brought on mainly by my over-fiery temper. Yet 
when I pondered deeply I would not have the act undone, 
for a display of foolish passion was better in my eyes than 
the suffering of an insult to a lady to pass unregarded. 

As for the fight on the morrow I did not know whether 
to await it with joy or shrinking. As I have said already, 


120 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

I longed to bring matters between the two of us to a head. 
There was much about him that I liked ; he had many 
commendable virtues ; and especially he belonged to my 
own house. But it seemed decreed that he should ever 
come across my path, and already there was more than one 
score laid up against him in my heart. I felt a strange 
foreboding of the man, as if he were my antithesis, which 
certain monkish philosophers believed to accompany every 
one in the world. He was so utterly different from me in 
all things ; my vices he lacked and my virtues; his excel¬ 
lencies I wanted, and also, I trust, his faults. I felt as if 
the same place could not contain us. 

If I conquered him, the upshot would be clear enough. 
He could not remain longer in Leyden. His reputation, 
which was a great one, would be gone, and he would doubt¬ 
less change into some other regiment and retire from the 
land. If, again, he had the vantage of me, I had no reputa¬ 
tion to lose, so I might remain where I pleased. So he 
fought with something of a disadvantage. It was possible 
that one or other might be killed ; but I much doubted it, 
for we were both too practised swordsmen to butcher like 
common cutthroats. Nevertheless, I felt not a little un¬ 
easy, with a sort of restlessness to see the issue of it all— 
not fear, for though I have been afraid many times in my 
life it was never because of meeting a man in fair combat. 

Toward evening I returned to my lodging and devoted 
the remainder of the day to the study of the books of 
Joshua and Judges for the comforting of my soul. 

CHAPTER VI 

THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH 

Nicol wakened me before dawn and I made haste to get 
ready. I looked to see that my sword was in fit condition, 
for it was a stout cut-and-thrust blade of the kind which 
speedily takes the rust. Then having taken a draught of 
strong ale to brace my nerves for the encounter, I left the 


THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH 


■121 


house and set off with my servant for the college gardens. 

The morning was clear and fresh. The sun had not yet 
fully arisen, but it was light enough to see two hundred 
yards before me. A sharp wind fluttered my cloak, and 
sent a thrill of strength through me, for it minded me of the 
hill breezes which were wont to blow on the heights of 
Scrape. There was scarce any one stirring save a few 
drowsy burghers whom it behoved to be attending to their 
business in the early morn. I kept my cloak well over my 
face, for I did not relish the notion of being recognized by 
any one on my errand. 

Now, from the college gardens there stretches down to 
the great canal a most beautiful pleasaunce, all set with 
flower beds and fountains. Beyond this, again, is a more 
rugged land—a grove with great patches of grass in it, and 
here it was that gentlemen of the Scots regiment were wont 
to settle their differences. The morning had been chosen 
as the time when it was less likely that some interloping 
busybody might interrupt us. 

I cannot tell how I felt as I walked through the cool 
morning air among the young herbs and trees which still 
bore the dew upon them. It minded me so keenly of the 
mornings at home in Tweeddale, when I was used to rise 
before daylight and go far up Tweed with my rod, and bring 
back, if my luck were good, great baskets of trout. Now I 
was bound on a different errand. It was even possible that 
I might see my own land no more. ButThis thought I dis¬ 
missed as unworthy of one who would be thought a cavalier. 

In time we came to the spot which the others had fixed 
on. There I found my men already waiting me ; my cousin 
stripped to his sark and small-clothes, with his blade 
glimmering as he felt its edge ; his companions muffled up 
in heavy cloaks and keeping guard over Gilbert’s stripped 
garments. They greeted me shortly as I came up, so with¬ 
out more ado I took off my coat and vest, and gave them 
into my servant’s keeping. Then going up to my opponent 
I took his hand. 

" Let there be no malice between us, Gilbert,” said I. 


122 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

*' I was rash maybe, but I am here to give account of my 
rashness.” 

“ So be it, cousin,” he said, as he took my hand coldly. 

We both stepped back a pace and crossed swords, and in 
a trice we had fallen to. 

My first thought, and I am not ashamed to confess it, 
when I felt my steel meet the steel of my foe, was one of 
arrant and tumultuous fear. I had never before crossed 
swords with any one in deadly hatred ; and in my case the 
thing was the harder, for the feeling against my cousin was 
not so violent a passion as to make me heedless of aught 
else. Before me, behind the back of my antagonist, the 
thick underwood was already filled with the twittering of 
birds, and a great feeling of longing came upon me to get 
well through with the affair and escape death. For now a 
feeling which I had not reckoned with came to oppress me— 
the fear of death. Had my wits been more about me, I 
might have reflected that my cousin was too good a swords¬ 
man to kill me and lay himself open to many penalties. 
But my mind was in such a confusion that I could think of 
naught but an overwhelming danger. 

Howbeit, in a little this fit passed, and once more I was 
myself. Gilbert, for what reason I know not, fenced 
swiftly and violently. Blow came upon blow till I scarce 
could keep my breath. I fell at once upon the defensive, 
and hazarded never a cut, but set all my powers to preserv¬ 
ing my skin. And in truth this was no easy task, for he had 
acquired a villainous trick of passing suddenly from the 
leg-cut to the head-stroke, so that more than once I came 
not up to guard in time and had his sword almost among my 
hair. I could not guess what he meant by this strategy, 
for I had ever believed that a man who began in a hot-fit 
ended in a languor. He sought, I doubt not, to speedily put 
an end to the encounter by putting forth his greater strength, 
hoping to beat down my guard or bewilder me with the 
multiplicity of his flourishes. 

Now this conduct of my opponent had an effect the very 
counter of what he proposed. I became completely at my 


THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH 


123 


ease ; indeed, I swear I never felt more cool in my life. 
This has ever been the way with me, for I have always been 
at my best in the extremest perils. Oftentimes when things 
went very sore with me, I was at a loss and saw no way of 
escape ; but let them get a little worse and I was ready to 
meet them. So now I was on the watch to frustrate every 
moment, and since no man can fight rapidly and fight well, 
I kept him at bay till he deemed it prudent to give up this 
method. 

But now when he came down to slow, skilful fence I 
found my real danger. We were well matched, as had been 
proved in many a harmless encounter on the turf by the 
Tweed. I was something lighter, he somewhat stronger in 
the arm and firmer in the body ; but taking us all in all we 
were as equal a pair as ever crossed swords. And now there 
was an utter silence ; even the birds on the trees seemed to 
have ceased. The others no longer talked. The sharp 
clatter and ring of the swords had gone, and in its place 
was a deadly swish — swish, which every man who has heard 
it dreads, for it means that each stroke grazes the vitals. 
I would have given much in that hour for another inch to 
my arm. I put forth all my skill of fence. All that I had 
learned from Tam Todd, all that I had found out by my own 
wits was present to me ; but try as I would, and I warrant 
you I tried my utmost, I could not overreach my opponent. 
Yet I fenced steadily, and if I made no progress, I did not 
yield my ground. 

With Gilbert the case was otherwise. His play was the 
most brilliant I had ever seen, full of fantastic feints and 
flourishes such as is the French fashion. But I could not 
think that a man could last for ever in this style, since for 
one stroke of my arm there were two of his and much leaping 
from place to place. But beyond doubt he pressed me 
close. Again and again I felt his steel slipping under nry 
guard, and it was only by a violent parry that I escaped. 
One stroke had cut open my sleeve and grazed my arm, but 
beyond this no one of us had suffered hurt. 

But soon a thing which I had scarcely foreseen began to 


124 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

daunt me. I was placed facing the east, and the rising sun 
began to catch my eyes. The ground was my own choos¬ 
ing, so my ill-luck was my own and no fault of Gilbert’s. 
But it soon began to interfere heavily with my play. I 
could only stand on guard. I dared not risk a bold stroke, 
lest, my eyes being dazzled by the light, I should miscal¬ 
culate the distance. I own I began to feel a spasm of fear. 
More than one of my opponent’s strokes came within 
perilous nearness. The ground too was not firm, and my 
foot slid once and again when I tried to advance. To add 
to it all there was Gilbert’s face above the point of the 
swords, cold, scornful, and triumphant. I began to feel 
incredibly weak about the small of the back, and I suppose 
my arm must have wavered, for in guarding a shoulder-cut 
I dropped my point, and my enemy’s blade scratched my 
left arm just above the elbow. I staggered back with the 
shock of the blow, and my cousin had a moment’s breathing- 
space. I was so obviously the loser in the game, that 
Gilbert grew merry at my expense. 

“ Well, John,” he cried, " does’t hurt thee ? My arm is 
somewhat rougher than Marjory’s.” 

There seems little enough in the words, yet I cannot tell 
how that taunt angered me. In the mouth of another I 
had not minded it, but I had a way of growing hot whenever 
I thought of my cousin and my lady in the same minute of 
time. It called to my mind a flood of bitter memories. In 
this encounter, at any rate, it was the saving of me. Once 
more I was myself, and now I had that overmastering 
passionate hate which I lacked before. When I crossed 
swords again I felt no doubt of the issue and desired only 
to hasten it. He on his part must have seen something in 
my eyes which he did not like, for he ceased his flourishes 
and fell on defence. 

Then it was that the real combat of the day commenced. 
Before it had been little more than a trial of skill, now it was 
a deadly and determined battle. In my state of mind I 
would have killed my foe with a light heart, however much 


THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH 


125 


I might have sorrowed for it after. And now he began to 
see the folly of his conduct in the fore-part of the fight. I 
was still fresh and stout of arm ; he was a little weary and 
his self-confidence a little gone. 

“ By God, Gilbert, you will eat your words,” I cried, 
and had at him with might and main. 

I fenced as I had never fenced before, not rashly, but 
persistently, fiercely, cunningly. Every attempt of his I 
met and foiled. Again and again I was within an ace of 
putting an end to the thing, but for some trifling obstacle 
which hindered me. He now fought sullenly, with fear in 
his eyes, for he knew not what I purposed concerning him. 
I warrant he rued his taunt a hundred times in those brief 
minutes. 

At last my opportunity came. He made a desperate 
lunge forward, swung half round and exposed his right arm. 
I thrust skilfully and true. Straight through cloth and skin 
went my blade, and almost ere I knew I had spitted him 
clean through the arm just above the elbow. The sword 
dropped from his helpless hand. 

I had put forth too much strength, for as he stumbled 
back with the shock of the wound I could not check my 
course, but staggered heavily against him and together we 
rolled on the ground. 

In a second I was on my feet and had drawn out my 
weapon. With lowered point I awaited his rising, for he 
was now powerless to continue. 

Well,” said I, " have you had satisfaction ? ” 

He rose to his feet with an ugly smile. " Sufficient for 
the present, cousin John,” said he. <f I own you have got 
the better of me this time. Hi, Stephen, will you lend me a 
kerchief to bind this cursed wound ? ” 

One of his companions came up and saw to his wants. I 
made to go away, for there was no further need of my 
presence, but my cousin called me back. 

" Farewell, John,” he said. <f Let us not part in anger, 
as before. Parting in anger, they say, means meeting in 
friendship. And, ’faith, I would rather part from you in 
all love and meet you next in wrath.” 


126 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ Farewell,” I said carelessly as I departed, though I was 
amazed to hear a man with a pierced arm speak so lightly. 
Courage was not a quality which my cousin had to seek. 
So I left him in high good humour with myself, much 
pleased at my own prowess, and sensible that all immediate 
annoyance from that quarter was at an end. 

Little man knows what God hath prepared for him. Had 
it not been for his defeat, Gilbert had not left Holland, and 
my greater misfortunes had never happened. And yet at 
that hour I rejoiced that I had rid myself of a torment. 

Nicol was awaiting me, and soon I was arrayed in my 
coat once more, for the air was shrewdly cold. My servant 
was pale as I had never seen him before, and it was clear 
that he had watched the combat with much foreboding. 

<r Eh, Maister John,” he cried, “ ye’re a braw fechter. I 
never likit ye half as weel. I thocht a’ was up whiles, but 
ye aye cam to yoursel as sprig as a wull-cat. Ye’re maybe 
a wee thing weak i’ the heid-cuts, though,” he added. “ I’ll 
hae to see to ye. It’s no what ye micht ca’ profitable to be 
aye proddin’ a man in the wame, for ye may prick him a' 
ower and him no muckle the waur. But a guid cleavin* 
slash on the harns is maist judeecious. It wad kill a stirk.” 

It was still early and we had breakfasted sparely, so we 
sought a tavern of good repute, The Three Crows, and made 
a hearty meal, washing it down with the best Rhenish. I 
was so mightily pleased with my victory, like a child with 
its toy, that I held my head a full inch higher, and would 
yield the causeway to no man. I do believe if M. Balagny 
or the great Lord Herbert had challenged me I would not 
have refused. 

Some three days later I had sure tidings that my cousin 
had sailed for Leith and was thought to have no design of 
returning. 


I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS 


127 


CHAPTER VII 

I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS 

Summer came on the heels of spring, and the little strip of 
garden below my windows grew gay as the frock of a bur¬ 
gher’s wife on a Sunday. There were great lines of tulips, 
purple and red and yellow, stately as kings, erect as a line 
of soldiers, which extended down the long border nigh to the 
edge of the water. The lawn was green and well trimmed 
and shaded by the orderly trees. It was pleasant to sit 
here in the evenings, when Nicol would bring out the supper- 
table to the grass, and we would drink our evening ale while 
the sun was making all the canal a strip of beaten gold. 
Many folk used to come of an evening, some of them come 
to the university on the same errand as myself, others, Scots 
gentlemen out of place and out of pocket, who sought to 
remedy both evils by paying court to the Stadtholder. Then 
we would talk of our own land and tell tales and crack jests 
till the garden rang with laughter. I could well wish those 
times back, if I could bring with them the forte latus, nigros 
angusta fronte capillos, dulce loqui, ridere decorum. But fie 
on me for such discontent ! Hath not God given good gifts 
for age as well as youth—aye, perhaps in greater abundance ? 

I pursued my studies in the ancient literatures and 
philosophy with much diligence and profit. Neverthe¬ 
less, there was much to turn my attention, and I doubt if I 
did not find the folk around me the more diverting objects 
of study. I lived in an air of theology and philosophy and 
statecraft, hearing discussions on these and kindred matters 
all the day long. There were many of my own countrymen 
in the place, who are notoriously the most contentious of 
mankind : so that I could scarcely walk down any street 
without hearing some violent disputation in my own tongue. 
As for the other people of the place, I found them both civil 
and hospitable. 

The routine of my days was as regular as clockwork, for 
it was always part of my method to apportion my day 


128 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

equally among my duties. In the morning, immediately 
upon rising, I went to Master Sandvoort’s lecture on the 
Latin tongue. Then I broke my fast in the little tavern. 
The Gray Goose, just at the south entrance to the college. 
It was a clean, well-fitted place, where was found the fattest 
landlord and the best ale in Holland, Then at the hour of 
ten in the forenoon I went to listen to the eloquence of 
Master Quellinus. Having returned thence to my lodging 
I was wont to spend the time till dinner in study. There¬ 
after I walked in the town, or resorted to the houses of my 
friends, or read in the garden till maybe four o’clock, when 
it was my custom to go to the dwelling of Sir William 
Crichtoun (him whom I have spoken of before), and there, in 
the company of such Scots gentlemen as pleased to come, to 
pass the time very pleasantly. From these meetings I had 
vast profit, for I learned something of the conduct of affairs 
and the ways of the world, in the knowledge of which I had 
still much to seek. Then home once more to study, and 
then to bed with a clear conscience and great drowsiness. 

But there were several incidents which befell during this 
time, and which served to break the monotony of my life, 
which merit the telling. Firstly, towards the end of Sep¬ 
tember who should come to visit me but my kinsman, 
Gilbert Burnet of Salisbury, a scholar shrewd and profound, 
a gentleman of excellent parts, and the devoutest Christian 
it has ever been my lot to fall in with. He was just return¬ 
ing from his journey to Italy, whereof he has written in his 
work, “ Some Letters to T. H. R. B. Concerning his Travels 
in Italy and Holland.” It was one afternoon as I sat in the 
arbour that Nicol came across the green followed by an 
elderly man of grave and comely appearance. It was to my 
great joy that I recognized my kinsman. He had alighted in 
Leyden that morning and proposed to abide there some 
days. I would have it that he should put up at my lodg¬ 
ings, and thither he came after many entreaties. During 
his stay in the city he visited many of the greater folk, for 
his fame had already gone abroad, and he was welcome 
everywhere. He was a man of delightful converse, for had 


I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS 


129 


he not travelled in many lands and mixed with the most 
famous ? He questioned me as to my progress in letters 
and declared himself more than satisfied. “ For, John,” 
said he, “ I have met many who had greater knowledge, but 
none of a more refined taste and excellent judgment. Did 
you decide on the profession of a scholar I think I could 
promise you a singular success. But indeed it is absurd to 
think of it, for you, as I take it, are a Burnet and a man of 
action and one never to be satisfied with a life of study. I 
counsel you not to tarry too long in this foreign land, for 
your country hath sore need of men like you in her present 
distress.” Then he fell to questioning me as to my opinions 
on matters political and religious. I told him that I was for 
the church and the king to the death, but that I held that 
the one would be the better of a little moderation in its 
course, and that the other had fallen into indifferent hands. 
I told him that it grieved my heart to hear of my own 
countrymen pursued like partridges on the mountains by 
some blackguard soldiers, and that when I did return, while 
deeming it my duty to take the part of the king in all 
things, I would also think it right to hinder to the best of my 
power the persecution. In this matter he applauded me. 
It pained him more than he could tell, said he, to think that 
the church of his own land was in such an ill condition that 
it did not trust its friends. “ What in Heaven’s name is all 
this pother ? ” he cried. " Is a man to suffer because he 
thinks one way of worshipping his God better than another ? 
Rather let us rejoice when he worships Him at all, whether 
it be at a dyke-side or in the King’s Chapel.” And indeed 
in this matter he was of my own way of thinking. When 
finally he took his leave it was to my great regret, for I 
found him a man of kindly and sober counsels. 

Yet his visit had one result which I had little dreamed of, 
for it led me to show greater friendliness to such of the Scots 
covenanters as were refugees in the town. I learned some¬ 
thing of their real godliness and courage, and was enabled 
to do them many little services. In particular, such letters 
as they wished to write to their friends at home I trans- 

E 


130 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

mitted under my own name and seal, since all communica¬ 
tion with Holland was highly suspected unless from a man 
of approved loyalty. 

The other matter which I think worth noting was the 
acquaintance I formed with a Frenchman, one M. de 
Rohaine, a gentleman of birth, who was in great poverty 
and abode in a mean street off the Garen Markt. The way 
in which I first met him was curious. I was coming home 
late one evening from Master Swinton’s house, and in pass¬ 
ing through a little alley which leads from near the college 
to the Garen Markt, I was apprised of some disturbance by 
a loud noise of tumult. Pushing forward amid a crowd of 
apprentices and fellows of the baser sort, I saw a little man, 
maybe a tailor or cobbler from his appearance, with his 
back against a door and sore pressed by three ruffians, who 
kept crying out that now they would pay him for his miserly 
ways. The mob was clearly on their side, for it kept ap¬ 
plauding whenever they struck or jostled him. I was just 
in the act of going forward to put an end to so unequal a 
combat, when a tall grave man thrust himself out of the 
throng and cried out in Dutch for them to let go. They 
answered with some taunt, and almost before I knew he had 
taken two of the three, one in either hand, and made their 
heads meet with a sounding crack. I was hugely delighted 
with the feat, and broke forward to offer my help, for it 
soon became clear that this champion would have to use 
all his wits to get out of the place. The three came at him 
swearing vehemently, and with evil looks in their eyes. He 
nodded to me as I took my stand at his side. 

" Look after the red-beard, friend,” he cried. “ I will 
take the other two.” 

And then I found my hands full indeed, for my opponent 
was tough and active, and cared nothing for the rules of 
honourable warfare. In the end, however, my training got 
the mastery, and I pinked him very prettily in the right 
leg, and so put him out of the fight. Then I had time to 
turn to the others, and here I found my new-found comrade 
sore bested. He had an ugly cut in his forehead, whence a 


I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS 


131 

trickle of blood crawled over his face. But his foes were 
in a worse case still, and when word came at the moment 
that a body of the guard was coming they made off with 
all speed. 

The man turned and offered me his hand. 

“ Let me thank you, sir, whoever you may be,” said he. 
" I am the Sieur de Rohaine at your service.” 

" And I am Master John Burnet of Barns in Scotland,” 
said I. 

" What,” he cried," a Scot! ” And nothing would serve 
him but that I must come with him to his lodging and join 
him at supper. For, as it seemed, he himself had just come 
from Scotland, and was full of memories of the land. 

I found him a man according to my heart. When I spoke 
of his gallantry he but shrugged his shoulders. “ Ah,” said 
he, “ it was ever my way to get into scrapes of that kind. 
Were I less ready to mix in others’ business I had been a 
richer and happier man to-day,” and he sighed. 

From him I learned something more of the condition of 
my own land, and it was worse even than I had feared. M. 
de Rohaine had had many strange adventures in it, but 
he seemed to shrink from speaking of himself and his own 
affairs. There was in his eyes a look of fixed melancholy 
as of one who had encountered much sorrow in his time 
and had little hope for more happiness in the world. Yet 
withal he was so gracious and noble in presence that I felt 
I was in the company of a man indeed. 

If I were to tell all the benefit I derived from this man 
I should fill a volume and never reach the end of my tale. 
Suffice it to say that from him I learned many of the tricks 
of sword play, so that soon I became as nigh perfect in the 
art as it was ever in my power to be. I learned too of 
other lands where he had been and wars which he had 
fought; and many tales which I have often told at home 
in Tweeddale I first heard from his lips. I was scarce ever 
out of his company, until one day he received a letter from 
a kinsman bidding him return on urgent necessity. He 
made his farewells to me with great regret, and on parting 


132 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

bade me count on his aid if I should ever need it. From 
that day to this I have never cast eyes on his face or heard 
tidings of him, but I herewith charge all folk of my family 
who may read this tale, if ever it be their fortune to meet 
with one of his name or race, that they befriend him to the 
best of their power, seeing that he did much kindness to me. 

So the summer passed with one thing and another, till, 
ere I knew, winter was upon us. And I would have you 
know that winter in the Low Countries is very different 
from winter with us among the hills of Tweed. For here 
we have much mist and rain and a very great deal of snow ; 
also the cold is of a kind hard to endure, since it is not of 
the masterful, overbearing kind, but raw and invidious. 
But there the frost begins in late autumn and keeps on 
well till early spring. Now was there in my experience 
much haze or rain, but the weather throughout the months 
was dry and piercing. Little snow fell, beyond a sprinkling 
in the fore-end of January. Every stream and pond, every 
loch and canal was hard and fast with ice, and that of the 
purest blue colour and the keenest temper I have ever seen. 
All the townsfolk turned out to disport themselves on the 
frozen water, having their feet shod with runners of steel 
wherewith they performed the most wondrous feats of 
activity. The peasant-girls going to market with their farm 
produce were equipped with these same runners, and on 
them proceeded more quickly than if they had ridden on 
the high road. 

Often too, during the winter, there were festivals on the 
ice, when the men arrayed in thick clothes and the women 
in their bravest furs came to amuse themselves at this 
pastime. I went once or twice as a spectator, and when I 
saw the ease and grace of the motion was straightway smit¬ 
ten with a monstrous desire to do likewise. So I bought 
a pair of runners and fitted them on my feet. I shall not 
dwell upon my immediate experiences, of which indeed I 
have no clear remembrance, having spent the better part 
of that afternoon on the back of my head in great bodily 
discomfort. But in time I made myself master of the art 


THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW 133 

and soon was covering the ice as gaily as the best of them. 

. I still remember the trick of the thing, and five years ago, 
when the floods in Tweed made a sea of the lower part of 
Manor valley, and the subsequent great frost made this sea 
as hard as the high road, I buckled on my runners and had 
great diversion, to the country folks’ amazement. 

In all this time I had had many letters from Marjory, letters 
writ in a cheerful, pleasant tone, praying indeed for my 
return, but in no wise complaining of my absence. They 
were full of news of the folk of Tweedside, how Tam Todd 
was faring at Barns, and what sport her brother Michael was 
having in the haughlands among the wild-duck. I looked 
eagerly for the coming of those letters, for my heart was 
ever at Dawyck, and though I much enjoyed my sojourning 
in Holland, I was yet glad and willing for the time of depar¬ 
ture to arrive. In January of the next year I received a 
bundle of news written in the gayest of spirits ; but after 
that for three months and more I heard nothing. From 
this long silence I had much food for anxiety, for though I 
wrote, I am sure, some half-dozen times, no reply ever 
came. The uneasiness into which this put me cast some¬ 
thing of a gloom over the latter part of the winter. I in¬ 
vented a hundred reasons to explain it. Marjory might be 
ill; the letters might have gone astray ; perhaps she had 
naught to tell me. But I could not satisfy myself with 
these excuses, so I had e’en to wait the issue of events. 

It was not till the month of April that I had news from 
my love, and what this was I shall hasten to tell. 

CHAPTER VIII 

THE COMING OF THE BRIG “SEAMAW” 

It was the third day of April, a day so cool and mild that 
every one who could was in the open air, that I sat in the 
little strip of garden behind my lodging, reading the Sym¬ 
posium of Plato in the light of certain digests of Master 


134 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

Quellinus. The beds of hyacinth, yellow and blue and red, 
were flaunting before my eyes, and down by the water’s 
edge the swallows were twittering and skimming. The soft 
spring wind fluttered the leaves of my book and stirred my 
hair, so that I found it hard indeed to keep my attention 
fixed. Some yards behind me Nicol sat cleaning a fishing-rod, 
for in the idle days he amused himself with trying his skill 
among the sleepy streams. He was whistling some bars of 
“ Leezie Lindsay,” and the tune, which I had often heard 
in Tweeddale, put me much in mind of home and inclined 
my heart violently to the place I had left. So soon I found 
my Plato lying listlessly on my lap, and my thoughts far 
away over sea. 

Just now, I knew, would be the lambing-time in the 
Tweed hills, and all the valleys would be filled with the 
noise of sheep. The shepherds, too, would be burning the 
bent, and the moors sending up wreaths of pungent smoke. 
I minded the smell so well that I almost fancied it was in 
my nostrils in place of the moist perfume of hyacinth and 
violet. At Barns, Tam Todd would be seeing to the young 
trees and fishing in the full streams. At Dawyck, Marjory 
would be early abroad, plucking the spring flowers and 
bringing in armfuls of apple-blossom to deck the rooms. 
The thought of Marjory gave me sudden discomfort. I 
reflected for the thousandth time that I had heard nothing 
of her for months, and I fell to wondering greatly at her 
silence. By and by, what with thinking of home and of 
her and chafing at her neglect, I found myself in a very 
pretty state of discontentment. 

It was just then that I heard a voice behind me, and turn¬ 
ing round saw Nicol approaching in company with another. 
The stranger was a man of remarkable appearance. He was 
scarcely the middle height, but his breadth across the 
shoulders was so great that he seemed almost dwarfish. 
He had arms of extraordinary length, so long that they 
reached almost to his knees, like the Tartars in Muscovy 
that I have read of. His square, weatherbeaten face was 
filled with much good humour, and the two eyes which 


THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW 135 

looked out from beneath his shaggy brows were clear and 
shrewd. 

" This is Maister Silas Steen o’ the brig Seamaw ,” said 
Nicol, making an introduction, ,f whae has come from Scot¬ 
land this morning, and says he has letters wi’ him for you.” 
Having delivered himself, my servant retreated, and left 
the newcomer along with me. 

" You’ll be Master John Burnet of Barns ? ” said he, 
looking at me sharply. 

“ The same, at your service,” said I. 

“ It’s just a bit letter for you,” and he dived into his 
pocket and produced a packet. 

I took it hastily, for I had some guess who was the writer. 
Nor was I wrong, for one glance at the superscription told 
me the truth. And this is how it ran : 

*' For Master John Burnet in the house of Mistress Van - 
derdecker near the Breedestraat, at Leyden. 

“ Dear John : I have not written thee for long, and I 
trust that thereby I have not given thee trouble. I am 
well and happy, when this leaves me, though desiring thy 
return. I trust your studies are to your satisfaction. Tam 
Todd, from the Barns, was over yestreen, and gave a good 
account of all things there.” 

Then came a pause, and the writing was resumed in a 
hurried, irregular hand. 

“ I am not free to write my will. 0 John, dear John, 
come back to me. I am so unhappy. I cannot survive 
without thee another day ” (this latter word had been 
scored out and month put in its place). " I am in dreadful 
perplexity. Come quick. 

“ Marjory.” 

You may imagine into what state of mind the reading of 
this letter threw me. My lady was in trouble, that was 
enough for me, and she desired my aid. I guessed that the 
letter had been written stealthily and that some trouble 
had been found in its conveyance, for it. bore the marks of 


136 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

much crumpling and haste. I could make no conjecture as 
to its meaning, and this doubt only the more increased my 
impatience. 

“ From whom did you get this ? ” I asked. 

“ From a great, thin, swart man, who brought it to me at 
Leith, and bade me deliver it. I came post haste from 
Rotterdam this day.” 

I ran over in my mind the serving-folk at Dawyck, and 
could think of none such. Then, like a flash, I remembered 
Tam Todd. This doubly increased my fears. If Marjory 
could get no porter for her message save one of my own 
servants, then the trouble must be at Dawyck itself. 

I can find no words for the depths of my anxiety. To 
think of Marjory in sorrow and myself separated by leagues 
of land and sea wellnigh drove me distracted. There and 
then I resolved on my course. 

" Your ship is at Rotterdam ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes,” said the captain. 

“ When does she sail ? ” 

" To-morrow night, when the cargo is on board.” 

" I’ll give you twenty pieces of gold if you’ll sail to-night/' 

The captain shook his head. " It canna be done,” he 
cried ; ” my freight is lace and schiedam, worth four times 
twenty pieces, and I canna have a voyage for naething.” 

“ Listen,” said I, “ I am in terrible perplexity. I would 
give you a hundred, if I had them ; but I promise you, if 
you bring me safely to the port of Leith, they shall be paid. 
Ride back to your vessel and ship all the stuff you can, 
and I will be with you at eleven o’clock this night, ready to 
sail.” 

The fellow shook his head, but said nothing. 

“ Man, man,” I cried, “ for God’s sake, I implore you. 
It’s a matter to me of desperate import. See, there are 
your twenty pieces, and I’ll give you my bond for eighty, 
to be paid when we win to Leith.” 

“ Tut, Master Burnet,” said he, " I will not be taking 
your money. But I'm wae to see you in trouble. I’ll take 
you over the nicht for the twenty pieces, and if I lose on the 


THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAM AW 


137 


venture, you can make it up to me. It’s safer carrying you 
and running straight for the pier, than carrying schiedam 
and dodging about the Bass. And I’m not a man that need 
count his pennies. Forbye, I see there’s a lady in the case, 
and I deem it my duty to assist you.” 

I was at first astonished by the man’s ready compliance, 
but when I saw that he was sincere, I thanked him to the 
best of my power. Be sure I shall not forget this service, 
Captain Steen,” said I ; “ and if it is ever in my power to 
serve you in return, you may count on me. You will take 
some refreshment before you go ” ; and, calling Nicol, I 
bade him see to the stranger’s wants. 

Meantime it behoved me to be up and doing if I was to 
sail that night. I knew not what to think of the news I 
had heard, for, as I thought upon the matter, it seemed so 
incredible that aught could have gone wrong that I began 
to set it all down to mere loneliness and a girl’s humours. 
The strangeness of the letter I explained with all the so¬ 
phistry of care. She did not wish to disturb me and bring 
me home before my time. This was what she meant when 
she said she was not free to write her will. But at the end 
her desolateness had overmastered her, and she had finished 
with a piteous appeal. Even so I began to reason, and this 
casuistry put me in a more hopeful frame of mind. It 
was right that I should go home, but when I got there I 
should find no cause for fear. But there was much to be 
done in the town and the college ere I could take my depar¬ 
ture. So when I had paid all the monies that I owed, and 
bidden farewell to all my friends (among whom Sir William 
Crichtoun and Master Quellinus were greatly affected), I 
returned to my lodgings. There I found Nicol in great 
glee, preparing my baggage. He was whistling the “ Law- 
lands of Holland,” and every now and then he would stop 
to address himself. “ Ye’re gaun hame,” I heard him say¬ 
ing, “ ye’re gaun hame to the hills and the bonny water o’ 
Tweed, and guid kindly Scots folk, after thae frostit Hol¬ 
landers, and fine tasty parritsh and honest yill after the 
abominable meats and drinks o’ this stawsome hole. And 


138 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

ye’d better watch your steps, Nicol Plenderleith, my man, 
I’m tellin’ ye, and keep a calm sough, for there’s a heap 
o’ wark to be dune, and some o’ it geyan wanchancy.” 

“ Good advice, Nicol,” said I, breaking in upon him ; 
<f see that you keep to it.” 

“ Is that you, Maister John ? Ye’ll be clean high aboot 
gaun back. Ye’ll hae seen a’ that’s to be seen here, for 
after a’ it’s no a great place. And ye maun mind and put 
a bottle o’ French brandy in your valise, or you’ll be awfu’ 
oot on the sea. I think it’s likely to be coorse on the water.” 

I took my servant’s advice, and when all was done to my 
liking, I walked down to the college gate for one last look 
at the place. I was in a strange temper—partly glad, 
partly sad—and wholly excited. When I looked on the grey, 
peaceful walls, breathing learning and repose, and thought 
of the wise men who had lived there, and the great books 
that had been written, and the high thoughts that had been 
born, I felt a keen pang of regret. For there was at all 
times in me much of the scholar’s spirit, and I doubted 
whether it had not been better for me, better for all, had 
I chosen the life of study. I reflected how little my life 
would lie now in cloisters and lecture halls, in what difficul¬ 
ties I would soon be plunged and what troublous waters I 
might be cast upon. My own land was in a ferment, with 
every man’s hand against his brother ; my love might be in 
danger ; of a surety it looked as if henceforward quiet and 
gentleness might be to seek in my life. I own that I looked 
forward to it without shrinking—nay, with a certain hopeful 
anticipation ; but I confess also that I looked at the past 
and all that I was leaving with a certain regret. Indeed, I 
was born between two stools ; for, while I could never be 
content to stay at home and spend my days among books, 
on the other hand, the life of unlettered action was repug¬ 
nant. Had it been possible, I should have gladly dwelt 
among wars and tumults with men who cared not for these 
things alone, and could return, when all violence was at an 
end, to books and study with a cheerful heart. But no 
man has the making of the world, and he must even fit 


AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING 139 

himself to it as he finds it. Nor do I think it altogether 
evil to have many desires and even many regrets, for it keeps 
a man’s spirit active, and urges him on to valiant effort. 
Of this I am sure, that contentment is the meanest of the 
virtues. 

As I left the place there was a cool, grey haze over all the 
gardens and towers—mellow and soft and lucid. But to 
the north, where lay the sea, there was a broken sky, blue, 
with fitful clouds passing athwart. It seemed, as it were, 
the emblem of my life—the tranquil and the unsettled. Yet 
in the broken sky there was a promise of sunshine and brilli¬ 
ance, which was not in the even grey; and this heartened me. 

So at four that evening we mounted horse and rode forth 
by the way we had come, and ere the hour of eleven were on 
the wharf at Rotterdam, sniffing the distant smell of the sea 

CHAPTER IX 

AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING 

Captain Steen met me on deck and greeted me heartily. 
“ There’s a brisk wind from the sou'-east,” said he, “ which 
should speed us well ” ; and soon, amid creaking of cordage 
and flapping of sails, we dropped down the estuary and set 
our face seawards. There was something of a squall of 
rain which beat on us till we were fairly beyond the Dutch 
coast ; but after that it drew down to the west, and when I 
awoke the next morn, the sky was blue and sunshiny, and the 
soft south wind whistled gaily in the ringing. 

Of my voyage home I do not purpose to tell at length. 
On it I met with none of the mishaps which I had encoun¬ 
tered before, so the brandy was wholly needless. Indeed, I 
found the greatest pleasure in the journey ; the motion of 
the ship gave me delight; and it was fine to watch the 
great heaving deserts before and behind, when the sun beat 
on them at midday, or lay along them in lines of gold and 
crimson at the darkening. The captain I found a friendly, 
talkative man, and from him I had much news of the state 


140 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

of the land whither I was returning. Nor was it of such a 
sort as to elate me, for it seemed as if, in the short time I 
had been away, things had taken many steps to the devil. 
The truth of the matter, I fancy, was that when I left 
Tweeddale I was little more than a boy, with a boy’s 
interests, but that now I had grown to some measure of 
manhood and serious reflection. 

But my time during the days of our sailing was in the 
main taken up with thoughts of Marjory. The word I had 
got still rankled in my mind, and I puzzled my brain with 
a thousand guesses as to its purport. But as the hours 
passed this thought grew less vexatious, for was not I on 
my way home, to see my love once more, to help her in 
perplexity, and, by God’s help, to leave her side never 
again ? So anxiety was changed by degrees to delight at 
the expectation of meeting her, and, as I leaned over the 
vessel’s edge and looked at the foam curling back from the 
prow, I had many pleasing images in my fancy. I would 
soon be in Tweeddale again, and have Scrape and Dollar 
Law and Caerdon before my eyes, and hear the sing-song of 
Tweed running through the meadows. I thought of golden 
afternoons in the woods of Dawyck, or the holms of Lyne, 
of how the yellow light used to make the pools glow, and 
the humming of bees was mingled with the cry of snipe and 
the song of linnet. As I walked the deck there were many 
pictures of like nature before me. I thought of the winter 
expeditions at Barns, when I went out in the early morning 
to the snow-clad hills with my gun, with Jean Morran’s 
dinner of cakes and beef tightly packed in my pocket; and 
how I was wont to come in at the evening, numb and frozen, 
with maybe a dozen white hares and duck over my shoulder, 
to the great fire-lit hall and supper. Every thought of 
home made it doubly dear to me. And more than all else, 
there was my lady awaiting me, looking for the sight of my 
horse’s head at the long avenue of Dawyck. An old catch, 
which wandering packmen used to sing, and which they 
called “ The North Countree,” ran in my head ; and, as I 
looked over the vessel’s bowsprit, I found myself humming : 


AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING 141 

“There’s an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain 

When I ride through Annan Water wi’ my bonny bands again/* 

Then I fell to thinking of the house of Bams, and of the 
many things which I should do were I home. There was 
much need of change in the rooms, which had scarce been 
touched for years. Also I figured to myself the study I 
should make, and the books which were to fill it. Then out 
of doors there was need of planting on the hillsides and 
thinning in the haughlands ; and I swore I should have a 
new cauld made in Tweed, above the island, for the sake of 
the fishing. All this and more should I do " when I rode 
through Annan Water wi’ my bonny bands again.” 

We left Rotterdam on the evening of one day, and sailed 
throughout the day following ; and since we had a fair 
wind and a stout ship, about noon on the next we rounded 
the Bass and entered the Forth. I was filled with great 
gladness to see my native land once more, and as for my 
servant, I could scarce prevail upon him to keep from 
flinging his hat into the sea or climbing to the masthead in 
the excess of his delight. The blue Lomonds of Fife, the 
long ridges of the Lammermoors, and the great battlements 
of the Pentlands were to me like honey in the mouth, so 
long had I been used to flat lands. And beyond them I saw 
the line of the Moorfoots, ending in Dundreich, which is a 
hill not five miles from the town of Peebles. 

About three of the clock we entered Leith Roads and 
awaited the signals for admission. “ The Seamaw lies at 
the wast harbour for usual,” said the captain, “ but there's 
something wrong thereaways the day, so we maun e’en run 
into the east.” So, soon amid a throng of barques at anchor 
and small boats moving to and fro among them, we steered 
our course, and in a very little lay against the grey, sea- 
washed walls of the east quay. There we landed, after 
bidding farewell to the captain ; and as my feet touched 
the well-worn cobblestones, and I smelt the smell of tar 
and herrings, I knew my own land. The broad twang of the 
fishermen, the shrill yatter of the fishwives, the look of the 
black, red-tiled houses, and the spires of the kirks—all was 


142 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

so Scots that it went straight to my heart, and it was 
with a cheerful spirit that, followed by my servant, I made 
for the inn of The Three Herrings, where I purposed to 
sleep the night ere I rode to Tweeddale on the morrow. So 
much for man’s devices : this was to be to me the last 
day of quiet life for many months. But as I briskly strode 
along the Harbour Walk, little I foresaw of the dangers 
and troubles which awaited my coming. 


BOOK III—THE HILLMEN 


CHAPTER I 

THE PIER O’ LEITH 

When I came to the door of The Three Herrings, I presented 
an imposing sight, with Nicol at my side and two sailors 
at my back with my baggage. The landlord, who was 
taking the afternoon air against the wall, made me a civil 
greeting, and placed his hostel at my service, opining that 
I was a stranger of consequence just come from abroad. 
So bidding my servant settle with the men, I followed my 
host upstairs to a room where a fire was burning and some 
refreshment laid on the table. From below came the clink 
of glasses and the snatch of a song. The sun poured in at 
the open window; a girl in the street was singing the 
“ Fishwives’ Rant ” ; and all the world seemed in gay 
spirits. 

An excellent supper was brought, on which I fell like a 
hawk, for the sea air had sharpened my hunger, and land¬ 
ward dishes are better than the meat of a ship. I bade the 
landlord let no one enter save my servant, for that I desired 
to be alone. Then I fell to summing up my monies, and 
various calculations of a like nature, which it was proper 
to make on my return ; and, finally, I pushed away my 
chair from the table, and, filling my glass, gave myself up 
to pleasing fancies. 

It was near the darkening, as I saw from the window 
which opened on the back yard, and which at that hour 
was filled with the red glow of sunset. The chimneys on 
the tall houses rose like spikes into the still air, and some- 

143 


144 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

where in the place a bell was ringing for I know not what. 
Below in the room I heard many mingled voices, and a 
high imperious tone as of one accustomed to authority. I 
guessed that some body of soldiers was filling the tap- 
room. I was in a fine, contented frame of mind, well 
pleased with the present, and looking cheerfully forward 
to the morrow. By and by I began to wish for Nicol’s 
presence and to wonder at his long absence. 

I was just approaching a state of irritation with my 
servant when the door was softly opened and the defaulter 
appeared. His face struck me with surprise, for, whereas 
for usual it was merry and careless, it was now filled with 
grave concernment. He closed the latch quietly behind 
him, and then slipped the bolt, locked the door, and pock¬ 
eted the key. 

I stared in silent amazement. 

“ If it comes to the warst,” he said, <f we can fecht for 
't ” 

“ What fooling is this ? ” said I. “ Tell me at once, and 
have done with it.” 

“ It’s nae fooling, Laird, as ye’ll be finding oot. Sit 
still, for I’ve a long story to tell ye.” And, having first 
listened for a noise from below, he began his news, while 
I listened in much trepidation. 

“ I paid the men as ye tellt me, and syne I gaed doun to 
my cousin’s shop i’ the Rope Walk, just to speir if they were 
a’ weel; and then I cam’ back to the inn, thinking to get 
a bit quiet gless a’ by mysel’ i’ the chimley corner. But 
when I gaed into the room I fand it filled wi’ muckle sodger 
folk, drinking and sweering like deevils. And the first 
man I clappit eyes on was yin Jock Cadder, whae was 
yince a freend o’ mine, so sitting doun aside Jock, I fell 
into crack. 

" Weel, I hadna been there mony meenutes when I hears 
a loud voice frae the ither end calling for a song. And 
anither voice answered, no sae loud, but weak and thin. 
I jumpit up in my seat, for the voices were weel kenned to 
me. And there I saw at the ither end o' the table your 


THE PIER O’ LEITH 


145 


wanchancy cousin the Captain, sitting glowrin’ wi' his 
muckle een and playing wi’ his gless. And aside him was 
nae ither than Maister Michael Veitch, him o’ Dawyck, 
but no like what he used to be, but a’ red aboot the een, 
and fosy aboot the face, like a man that’s ower fond o’ the 
bottle.” 

My heart leaped with a sudden terror at the news. What 
on earth was Marjory’s brother doing on the Pier o’ Leith 
in the company of my most bitter foe ? A great sense of 
coming ill hung over me as Nicol went on. 

“ Weel, I was astonished; and speaking quiet in Jock 
Cadder’s ear, I asks him what it meant, and what the twae 
were daein’ here. And this is what I heard from him, for 
Jock never jaloused I had aught to dae wi’ ye, but thocht 
I was aye the same auld hide-i’-the-heather I had been 
afore. ‘ When our Captain cam back frae furrin pairts,’ 
says he, ' he gangs off to Tweeddale, your ain countryside, 
for it seems there’s a lassie there he’s awfu' fond o’. She’s 
the dochter o’ auld Veitch o’ Dawyck, rich, and, by a’ 
accoont, terrible bonny. But she’s trysted to the Captain’s 
cousin, Burnet o’ Barns, whae has been in Holland for mair 
nor a year. It’s weel kenned that Maister Gilbert Burnet, 
when he gets a ploy intil his heid, never stops till he wins 
his purpose ; so he sets himsel' to mak love to the lass. 
And he couldna dae this unless he were weel in favour wi’ 
her brother Michael, so he begins by winnin' him ower to 
his side. Noo Michael Veitch (that’s him up there) was aye 
uncommon fond o’ wine and yill o’ a’ description, so the 
Captain leads him on and on by drinkin’ wi’ him at a’ times, 
till noo the man is fair helpless. But this wasna a', for if 
John Burnet cam hame and fund this gaun on, he wad 
mak a rare camsteery, and, by a’ accoont, he’s a stieve 
dour chiel. So Maister Gilbert, whae’s high in favour wi’ 
the Privy Council, gangs and tells them o’ some daeings o’ 
his cousin's abroad, o’ some hobnobbing and plotting wi' 
rebels and outlawed folk, and sending treasonable letters to 
this land under his name; so he gets a warrant for the lad’s 
arrest as sune as he sets foot on Scots earth—and a’ body 


14 © JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

kens what that means, that he’ll no be troubled muckle 
mair wi’ his cousin in this warld. That’s the reason we’re 
doun here the day. We’ve had word that he’s coming 
ower i’ the Seamaw, whiik lies at the wast harbour. We’ve 
been sending doun woTd thae last ’oors, but she’s no in 
there yet, and ’ill be noo till the morn.' 

“ That was what Jock Cadder tellt me, and I warrant 
I was in a fine fricht. It was clear the Captain had nae 
mind o’ me, for he lookit twae or three times my way, and 
never changed his face. I slips oot the door wi’oot being 
noticed, and cam up here wi’ a’ speed to tell ye the tale. 
So, Laird, ye’re in a close hole, and there’s just some auld 
wooden planking atween you and the Tolbooth.” 

I cared little for the Tolbooth or anything else. One 
thing, and one alone, claimed all my attention. My whole 
soul was filled with a terror of anxiety, of mad jealousy, 
and desperate fear for my lady’s sake. This was the cause 
of the letter, this the cause of her silence. I ground my 
teeth in helpless fury, and could have found it in my heart 
to rush down to Gilbert and choke the life in his throat. 
I was so appalled by the monstrousness of the thing that I 
could scarce think. My own danger was nothing, but that 
Marjory should be the sport of ruffians—the thing over¬ 
powered me. It was too fearsome, too monstrous. 

One thing was clear—that I must go to her at once. If 
Gilbert Burnet was on the Pier o’ Leith, Marjory Veitch 
at Dawyck would be quit of his company. Were I once 
there I could see her, and, perchance, save her. I cannot 
write down my full trepidation. My fingers clutched at 
my coat, and I could scarce keep my teeth from chattering. 
It was no fright that did it, but an awful sickening anxiety 
preying on my vitals. But with an effort I choked down 
my unrest, and centred all my thoughts on the present. 
Were I only in Tweeddale I might yet find a way out of 
the trouble. But woe’s me for the change in my prospects ! 
I had come home thinking in the pride of my heart to be 
welcomed by all and to cut a great figure in my own country¬ 
side ; and lo, I found myself an outlawed man, whose love 


THE PIER O' LEITH 


147 

was in peril, and whose own craig was none so sure. The 
sudden reversion all but turned my wits. 

I walked to the window and looked down. The night 
was now dark, but below a glimmer from the taproom 
window lit the ground. It was a court paved with cobble¬ 
stones from the beach, where stood one or two wagons, 
and at one end of which were the doors of a stable. Beyond 
that a sloping roof led to a high wall, at the back of which 
I guessed was a little wynd. Once I were there I might 
find my way through the back parts of Leith to the coun¬ 
try, and borrow a horse and ride to Tweeddale. But all 
was hazardous and uncertain, and it seemed as if my chance 
of safety was small indeed. I could but try, and if I must 
perish, why then so it was fated to be. 

“ Nicol,” said I, ,f bide here the night to keep off sus¬ 
picion, and come on as soon as you can, for the days have 
come when I shall have much need of you.” 

“ There’s but ae thing to be dune, to tak to the hills, 
and if ye gang onywhere from the Cheviots to the Kells, 
Nicol Plenderleith ’ill be wi' ye, and ye need hae nae fear. 
I ken the hills as weel as auld Sawtan their maister himsel’. 
I’ll e’en bide here, and if ever ye win to Dawyck, I'll no 
be lang ahint ye. Oh, if I could only gang wi’ ye ! But, 
by God, if ye suffer aught, there’ll be some o’ His Majesty’s 
dragoons that’ll dree their weird.” My servant spoke 
fiercely, and I was much affected at the tenderness for me 
which it betokened. 

“ If I never see you again, Nicol, you’ll watch over Mar¬ 
jory ? Swear, man, swear by all that’s sacred that you’ll 
do my bidding.” 

“ I swear by the Lord God Almighty that if ye come to 
ony scaith, I’ll send the man that did it to Muckle Hell, 
and I’ll see that nae ill comes ower Mistress Marjory. Keep 
an easy mind, Laird; I’ll be as guid as my word.” 

Without more ado I opened the window and looked out. 
My servant’s talk of taking to the hills seemed an over¬ 
soon recourse to desperate remedies. Could I but remove 
my sweetheart from the clutches of my rival, I trusted to 


148 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

prove my innocence and clear myself in the sight of all. 
So my thoughts were less despairing than Nicol’s, and I 
embarked on my enterprise with good heart. I saw the 
ground like a pit of darkness lie stark beneath me. Very 
carefully I dropped, and, falling on my feet on the cobble¬ 
stones, made such a clangour beneath the very taproom 
window that I thought the soldiers would have been out 
to grip me. As it was, I heard men rise and come to the 
window ; and, crouching far into the lee of the sill, I heard 
them talk with one another. “Tut, tut, Jock,” I heard 
one say, “ it is nothing but a drunken cadger come to seek 
his horse. Let be and sit down again.” When all was quiet 
I stole softly over to the other side, that I might scale the 
wail and reach the wynd, for I dare not pass through the 
open close into the Harbour Walk lest I should be spied and 
questioned by the soldiers who were ever lounging about. 

But some fortunate impulse led me to open the stable 
door. A feebly-burning lantern hung on a peg, and there 
came from the stalls the noise of horses champing corn. 
They were the raw-boned hacks of the soldiers, sorry beasts, 
for the increase of the military in the land had led to a 
dearth of horses. But there was one noble animal at the 
right, slim of leg and deep of chest, with a head as shapely 
as a maiden’s. I rushed hotly forward, for at the first 
glance I had known it for my own mare Maisie, the best in 
all Tweeddale. A fine anger took me again to think that 
my cousin had taken my steed for his own mount. I had sent 
it back to Barns, and, forsooth, he must have taken it thence 
in spite of the vigilant Tam Todd. But I was also glad, 
for I knew that once I had Maisie forth o'f the yard, and were 
on her back, and she on the highway, no animal ever foaled 
could come up with her. So I gave up all my designs on 
the wall, and fell to thinking how best 1 could get into the 
Harbour Walk. 

There was but one way, and it was only a chance. But 
for me it was neck or nothing, my love or a tow in the Grass- 
market ; so I tossed my plumed hat, my sword, and my 
embroidered coat on a heap of hay, tore open my shirt at 


HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 


149 


the neck, put a piece of straw between my lips, and soon 
was a very tolerable presentment of an ostler or farrier of 
some kind. So taking Maisie’s bridle—and at my touch 
she thrilled so that I saw she had not forgotten me—I led 
her boldly across the court, straddling in my walk to coun¬ 
terfeit some fellow whose work was with horses. My heart 
beat wildly as I went below the archway and confronted 
the knots of soldiers, who, sitting on a low bench or leaning 
against the wall, were engaged in loud talk and wrangling. 

“ Ho, you, fellow, where are you going with the Captain’s 
horse ? ” cried one. I knew by his tone that the man was 
a Southron, so I had little fear of detection. 

"I’m gaun to tak it to the smiddy,” said I, in my broad¬ 
est speech. " The Captain sent doun word to my maister, 
Robin Rattle, in the Flesh Wynd, that the beast was to be 
ta’en doun and shod new, for she was gaun far the neist 
day. So I cam up to bring it.” 

The man looked satisfied, but a question suggested itself 
to him. 

" How knew you the one, if you were never here before ? ” 

" It was the best beast i’ the place,” I said simply ; and 
this so put his mind to rest that, with a gratuitous curse, 
he turned round, and I was suffered to go on unmolested. 

Down the Harbour Walk I led her, for I dared not mount 
lest some stray trooper recognized the mare and sought to 
interrogate me. Very quietly and circumspectly I went, 
imitating a stableman by my walk and carriage as I best 
knew how, till in ten minutes I came to the end, and, turn¬ 
ing up the Fisherrow, came into Leith Walk and the borders 
of Edinburgh. 

CHAPTER II 

HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 

The night was full of wind, light spring airs, which rustled 
and whistled down every street and brought a promise of 
the hills and the green country. The stars winked and 


150 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

sparkled above me, but I had no mind to them or aught 
else save a grey house in a wood, and a girl sitting there 
with a heavy heart. 'Faith, my own was heavy enough as 
I led Maisie through the West Vennel, shunning all but the 
darkest streets, for I knew not when I might be challenged 
and recognized, losing my way often, but nearing always 
to the outskirts of the town. Children brawled on the pave¬ 
ment, lights twinkled from window and doorway, the smell 
of supper came out of chink and cranny. But such things 
were not for me, and soon I was past all, and near the hamlet 
of Liberton and the highway to Tweeddale. 

Now there was safety for me to mount, and it was blessed 
to feel the life between my knees and the touch of my mare’s 
neck. By good luck I had found her saddled and bridled, 
as if some careless, rascally groom had left her untouched 
since her arrival. But I would have cared little had there 
been no equipment save a bridle-rope. I could guide a 
horse on the darkest night by the sway of my body, and it 
was not for nothing that I had scrambled bareback about 
the hills of Barns. Maisie took the road with long, supple 
strides, as light and graceful as a bird. The big mass of 
Pentland loomed black before me ; then in a little it fell 
over to the right as we advanced on our way. The little 
wayside cottages went past like so many beehives ; through 
hamlet and village we clattered, waking the echoes of the 
place, but tarrying not a moment, for the mare was mettle¬ 
some, and the rider had the best cause in the world for his 
speed. 

Now this errand which seems so light, was, in truth, the 
hardest and most perilous that could be found. For you 
are to remember that I was a man proscribed and all but 
outlawed, that any chance wayfarer might arrest me ; and 
since in those troubled times any rider was suspected, what 
was a man to say if he saw one dressed in gentleman’s 
apparel, riding a blood horse, coatless and hatless ? Then, 
more, all the way to Peebles lay through dangerous land, 
for it was the road to the south-west and the Whigs of Gallo¬ 
way, and, since the Pentland Rising, that part had been 


HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 


151 

none of the quietest, Also it was my own country, where I 
was a well-kenned man, known to near every one, so what 
might have been my safety in other times, was my danger 
in these. This, too, was the road which my cousin Gilbert 
had travelled from Barns, and well watched it was like to 
be if Gilbert had aught to do with the matter. But the 
motion of my mare was so free, the air so fine, the night so 
fair, and my own heart so passionate, that I declare I had 
forgotten all about danger, and would have ridden down the 
High Street of Edinburgh, if need had been, in my great 
absence of mind. 

I was recalled to my senses by a sudden warning. A man 
on horseback sprang out from the shelter of a plantation, 
and gripped my bridle. I saw by the starlight the gleam 
of a pistol-barrel in his hand. 

<r Stop, man, stop ! there’s nae sic great hurry. You and 
me ’ill hae some words. What hae ye in your pouches ? ” 
Now I was unarmed, and the footpad before me was a 
man of considerable stature and girth. I had some rem¬ 
nants of sense left in me, and I foresaw that if I closed with 
him, besides the possibility of getting a bullet in my heart, 
the contest would take much time, and would have an un¬ 
certain ending. I was fairly at my wit’s end what with 
hurry and vexation, when the thought struck me that the 
law and military which I dreaded, were also the terror of 
such men as this. I made up my mind to throw myself on 
his mercy. Forbye, being a south-country man, the odds 
were great that my name would be known to him. 

“ I have no money,” I said, “ for I came off this night 
hot-speed, with a regiment of dragoons waiting behind me. 
I am the Laird of Barns, in Tweeddale, and this day an 
outlaw and a masterless man. So I pray you not to detain 
me, for there’s nothing on me worth the picking. I have 
not a groat of silver, and, as you see, I ride in my shirt.” 

“ Are ye the Laird o’ Barns ? ” said the man, staring. 
“ Man, I never kent it or I wadna ha’ been sae unceevil as 
to stop ye. Be sure that I’m wi’ ye, and sae are a’ guid 
fellows that likena thae langnebbit dragoons and thae 


152 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

meddlesome brocks o’ lawyers in Embro. Gang you ways 
for me. But stop, ye’ve nae airms. This ’ill never dae. 
Tak yin o’ my pistols, for I’ll never miss it. And see, gin 
ye tak my advice and gin ye’re gaun to Barns, gang off the 
Peebles road at Leadburn, and haud doun by the Brochtoun 
and Newlands ways, for a’ the way atween Leadburn and 
Peebles is hotchin’ wi’ sodgers and what-ye-may-ca’-thems. 
Guid e’en to ye, and a safe journey.” The man rode off 
and almost instantly was lost to my sight ; but his act gave 
me assurance that there was still some good left in the 
world, though in the most unlikely places. 

And now I saw before me the black woods of Rosslyn and 
Hawthornden, and in the near distance the roofs of the 
clachan of Penicuik. There I knew danger would await 
me, so taking a random turning to the right, I struck to¬ 
wards the hills in the direction of Glencorse. The place 
was rough and moory, and full of runlets of water, but 
Maisie was well used to such land, for it was no worse than 
the haughs of Manor, and level turf compared with the 
brow of the Deid Wife or the shoulder of Scrape. So in a 
little, when the lights of Penicuik were well on the left, I 
came to the Hawes Burn, which passes the Inn of Leadburn, 
and tracking it downward, came to the bald white house 
which does duty for a hostel. 

I dared not enter, though I was wofully thirsty, but kept 
straight on to the crossroads where the two paths to Tweed- 
dale part asunder. One—the way by which I had gone 
when I set out on my travels—goes over the moor and down 
by the springs of the Eddleston Water, through the village 
of that name, and thence down the vale to Peebles. The 
other, longer and more circuitous, cuts straight over the 
rough moorlands to the little village of Newlands, then 
over much wild country to Kirkurd, and the high hills 
which hem in the hamlet of Broughton, whence it is but 
five miles to the house of Dawyck. It is a road which I 
have always hated as being dismal and wild beyond any of 
my knowledge, but now I was glad to be on it, for every 
step brought me nearer to my love. 


HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 153 

The country, in the main, is desolate heather and bog, 
with here and there a white cot-house where dwells a shep¬ 
herd. Of late I hear that many trees have been planted 
and the bogs are being drained, but at the time I speak of, 
all was still in its virginal wilderness. The road, by a good 
chance, is dry and easy to find, else there had been difficul¬ 
ties awaiting me. The night was clear and sharp, and a 
bright moon made the path as plain as daylight. I found 
time to curse that moon whenever I neared human dwell¬ 
ings, and to bless it heartily when I was in the desert 
morasses again. 

In a little I saw a hilltop which, by its broad, flat shape 
I knew for the Black Mount, which lies above the village of 
Dolphinton on the way to the west country. This is a 
landmark of great note in the countryside, and now I could 
guess my whereabouts. I made out that I must be scarce 
two miles from the jumble of houses lining the highway 
which is named Kirkurd, at which spot the road fords the 
deep, sullen stream of Tarth. Now this same Tarth a little 
way down flows into the Lyne, which enters Tweed almost 
opposite the house of Barns. At other times I had ridden 
the path down its side, for it is many miles the shorter way. 
But I knew well that Barns would be watched like the 
courtyard of the Parliament House, and I durst not for my 
life venture near it. I deemed it unprofitable to run the 
risk of capture for the sake of an hour or two saved. So 
after passing Kirkurd,I held straight on over the black moors 
which lie towards the watershed of the Broughton burn. 

Now by good luck I had dismounted just after the bridge 
and buckled Maisie’s girth tight and eased the saddle, for I 
suspected that now I was entering the more dangerous 
country. The issue showed that I had guessed rightly, for 
just at the sharp turn of the road over the Hell’s Cleuch 
burn, I came near to my end. I was riding carelessly at a 
rapid pace through the thick wood of pines which cloaks 
the turn, when suddenly, ere ever I knew, I was into the 
middle of a detachment of horse riding leisurely in the same 
direction. 


154 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

I do not well know how I acted, save that my pistol went 
off in the mellay, and I saw a man clap his hand to his 
shoulder in a vast hurry and swear freely. Half a dozen 
hands were stretched to my bridle, half a dozen pistols 
covered me at once. Now I had no leave to use my hands, 
my pistol I had fired, so I was wholly at their mercy. 
What happened I can only guess, for I was in too great a 
flurry to have any clear remembrance of the thing. I was 
conscious of striking one man fiercely on the cheek with my 
empty pistol, and of kicking another on the shins with all 
my might. But my sudden appearance had startled the 
horses so thoroughly that all the soldiers’ time was taken 
up in curbing them, so they had no leisure to take aim at me. 
A dozen shots cracked around me, all going high into the 
air, and in a second I was through them and on the high road 
beyond, some twenty paces in advance. 

But by this time they were getting their horses under, and 
I felt that there was no time to be lost if I wished to see 
many more days on the earth. I patted Maisie’s neck, 
which to a beast of her spirit was the best encouragement, 
and set myself to a race for life. I kicked off my great 
boots to ease her, and then, leaning forward, began the 
trial of speed. Behind me I heard shouting and the beat 
of horses getting into their stride. Before me was the 
long, thin highway, and black hills, and endless peatmosses. 
I had half a mind to leave the road and ride for the hills, 
where I made sure no man of them could ever follow me. 
But I reflected that this would shut for me the way to 
Dawyck, and I should have to lie hid in these regions for 
weeks, for when my path was once seen they would guard 
it more closely. My only chance was to outstrip them and 
so keep the country open before me. 

Now began the most terrible and desperate race that I 
was ever engaged in. I had tried my cousin Gilbert and 
beaten him on the side of Scrape ; now his men were taking 
revenge for that episode in good earnest. At this time I 
was no more than out of pistol shot, and though I kept this 
interval, and all their balls fell short, it was an unpleasing 


HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 


155 


thing to be riding with shots behind you, any one of which, 
for all you knew, might lodge in your spine. So I strained 
every nerve to increase the distance. 

Maisie responded gallantly to my call. I felt her long, 
supple swing below me and the gathering of her limbs. I 
began to glory in the exhilaration of the thing, and my 
spirits rose at a bound. The keen, cool air blew about my 
face, the moonlight danced on the mare’s neck, and the 
way in front was a long strip of light. Sometimes I could 
not tell whether or not I was dreaming. Sometimes I 
thought I was back in Holland asleep in the garden, and 
that all this shifting pageant of light and scenery, these 
cries and shots behind, and this long, measured fall of 
hooves were but the process of a dream. I experienced the 
most acute enjoyment, for all heavy cares for the future 
were driven away by the excitement of the chase. It was 
glorious, I thought, and I cared not a straw for the loss of 
place and fortune if the free life of the open air and the 
hills was to be mine. It was war to the hilt between my 
cousin and myself; both had flung away the scabbards ; 
but I would master him yet and show him which was the 
better man. He should learn that John Burnet was never 
so strong as when he was most sorely pressed. 

But this braggadocio exhilaration soon passed, and in its 
place came some measure of forethought. I reflected that 
though I might distance my pursuers and win to Dawyck, 
I would surely be tracked, and so bring misfortune on my 
mistress and myself. I had as yet no clear plans for 
the future. I had already all but burned my boats, for 
this night’s work was like to get me into trouble on its own 
account. The wild notion of fleeing to the hills and trust¬ 
ing to God for the rest commended itself to me more and 
more. But one thing I must do—abide at Dawyck till 
such time as Nicol should be able to join me. I had the 
most perfect trust in him; I had proved him a hundred 
times, and I knew well that if mortal man could do aught 
to mend my fortunes, he could do it. So with this thought 
I matured a plan for the present. I must put forth all 


156 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

my speed and win clean away from my pursuers. Now at 
Broughton there was an inn, where abode an honest man, 
one Joshua Watson, who had oft had dealings with me in 
the past. He was an old retainer of my house, and I knew 
that he would see his roof and gear in a blaze before his 
eyes ere he would see any harm come to a laird of Barns. 
To him I purposed to go and hide till the dragoons had 
passed. They had not recognized me, I knew, for they were 
not men of our countryside ; and if left to themselves, 
would keep the highway to Moffat, and have never a thought 
of turning aside into Tweeddale. 

I whispered something to Maisie, and the good mare set 
herself to the task. She was still unjaded, for I had used 
her to long wanderings, and she had not forgotten the lesson. 
I listened to her steady, rhythmical breath and the measured 
beat of her hooves, and I thanked Heaven that I had chanced 
on her. At first they were maybe an eighth of a mile 
behind. Soon the distance increased, little by little at 
first, then by more and more as my mare got into her long 
gallop and their coarse beasts began to tire. We passed 
the little lonely cot of Lochurd, nestling under great green 
hills where the sheep bleat and the plovers cry alway. 
Then on by the lonely bog where men came once to dig 
marl and left a monstrous wide pit, filled with black water 
and with no bottom. I paused for a second to let Maisie 
drink from a burn which comes down from the Mount Hill. 
Soon we were at the turning where the road to Biggar and 
the West goes off from the highway. Here I stopped to 
listen for a moment. Far off and faint I heard the noise of 
my pursuers, and judged they were near a mile distant. 
Then off again ; and now the road inclines downward, and 
as one rises over the crest of brae, which the shepherds call 
the Ruchill End, there bursts on the sight all the vast 
circle of hills, crowded and piled together, which marks the 
course of Tweed. Down the little glen of Broughton I rode, 
while the burn made music by the highway, and it was hard 
to think that death awaited a little behind. Soon the moors 
sank into fields, trees and cottages appeared, a great stone 


HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH 


157 

mill rose by the water, and I clattered into the village of 
Broughton. 

The place was asleep, and, as I drew up at the inn, but 
one light was apparent. I hammered rudely at the door 
till the landlord came, sleepy and yawning, and bearing a 
candle in his hand. At the sight of me he started, for my 
danger was known all over Tweeddale. In a few words I 
told him of my pursuit and my request. He was a man of 
sparing speech, and, saying nothing, he led me to the barn 
and showed me a hole in a great bank of straw. Maisie he 
took to the stable. “ Ha’e nae fear," he said. " Trust me, 
I’ll settle the hash o’ thae gentry." 

Sure enough, I had not been two minutes in the place 
when I heard voices and the sound of horses, and creeping 
to the narrow, unglazed window, saw the dragoons draw up 
at the inn-door. Much shouting brought down the land¬ 
lord, who made a great show of weariness, and looked like 
one just aroused from sleep. 

“ Heard you or saw you any man pass on horseback about 
five minutes sune ? " they asked. 

" I daresay I did," said he. “ At ony rate, I heard the 
sound o’ a horse, and it’s verra likely it was on the Moffat 
road. There’s a hantle o’ folk pass by here at a’ ’oors." 

" Ye’re sure he didna come in here ? " they said again. 
" We’ll search the house to see." 

“ Weel," said the landlord, “ ye can dae as ye like, but 
it seems a gey fule’s errand. I tell ye it’s lang past mid¬ 
night, and we’ve a’ been asleep here, and naebody could 
hae gotten in unless I had opened the door, for I hae a’ the 
keys. But come and look, gentlemen, and I’ll fetch ye 
some yill.” 

They drank the ale, and then seemed to think better of 
their purpose, for they remounted. “ He’ll be aff to the 
hills at the heid o’ Tweed," they said. “ He would never, 
gin he had ony sense, gang doun Tweeddale, where there’s 
nae hiding for man or beast.” So with many wanton oaths 
they set off again at a lazy gallop. 


158 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

CHAPTER III 

THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK 

I KNEW well that I had little time to lose, and that what 
must be done must be done quickly. So as soon as the tails 
of them were round the hillside, I came out from my hiding- 
place and mounted Maisie once more. I thanked the land¬ 
lord, and with a cry that I would remember him if I ever 
got my affairs righted again, I turned sharply through the 
burn and down the path to Peebles. It was touch or miss 
with me, for it was unlikely that the highway between the 
west country and the vale of Peebles would be freed from 
the military. 

Yet freed it was. It may have been that the folk of 
Tweedside were little caring about any religion, and most 
unlike the dour carles of the Westlands, or it may have been 
that they were not yet stirring. At any rate I passed un» 
molested. I struck straight for the ridge of Dreva, and 
rounding it, faced the long valley of Tweed, with Rachan 
woods and Drummelzier haughs and the level lands of 
Stobo. Far down lay the forest of Dawyck, black as ink 
on the steep hillside. Down by the Tweed I rode, picking 
my way very carefully among the marshes, and guarding 
the deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows. 
Here daybreak came upon us, the first early gleam of light, 
tingling in the east, and changing the lucent darkness of 
the moonlit night to a shadowy grey sunrise. Scrape raised 
his bald forehead above me, and down the glen I had a 
glimpse of the jagged peaks of the Shieldgreen Kips, show¬ 
ing sharp against the red dawn. In a little I was at the 
avenue of Dawyck, and rode up the green sward, with the 
birds twittering in the coppice, eager to see my love. 

The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs of life 
came from within. But above me a lattice was opened to 
catch the morning air. I leapt to the ground and led 
Maisie round to the stables which I knew so well. The 
place was deserted : no serving-man was about; the stalls 


THE HOUSE OF DAW VC K 


*59 


looked as if they had been empty for ages. A great fear 
took my heart. Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not 
whither. I fled to the door as though the fiend were behind 
me, and knocked clamorously for admittance. Far off 
in the house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and 
the opening of doors. They came nearer, and the great 
house-door was opened cautiously as far as possible without 
undoing the chain ; and from within a thin piping inquired 
my name and purpose. 

I knew the voice for the oldest serving man who dwelt 
in the house. 

“ Open, you fool, open,” I cried. " Do you not know 
me ? The Laird of Barns ? ” 

The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand. 

“ Maister John, Maister John,” cried the old man, all 
but weeping. " Is’t yoursel’ at last ? We’ve had sair, 
sair need o’ ye. Eh, but she’ll be blithe to see ye.” 

" Is your mistress well ? ” I cried with a great anxiety. 

" Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in mind. 
But that’ll a’ be bye and dune wi’, noo that ye’re come back.” 

“ Where is she ? Quick, tell me,” I asked in my im¬ 
patience. 

“ In the oak room i’ the lang passage,” he said, as quick 
as he could muster breath. 

I knew the place, and without more words I set off across 
the hall, running and labouring hard to keep my heart 
from bursting. Now at last I should see the dear lass 
whom I had left. There was the door, a little ajar, and 
the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it. 

I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great, 

“ Come,” said that voice which I loved best in all the 
world. 

I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the 
old chair in which her father had always sat, wearing the 
dark dress of velvet which became her best, and with a 
great book in her lap, was Marjory. 

She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of 
joy ran to meet me. I took a step and had her in mv arms. 


i6o JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

My heart was beating in a mighty tumult of joy, and when 
once my love’s head lay on my shoulder, I cared not a fig 
for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting ; 
even now my heart grows warm at the thought ; but if 
such moments be given to many men, there is little to 
complain of in life. 

“ O John,” she cried, “ I knew you would come. I 
guessed that every footstep was yours, coming to help us. 
For oh ! there have been such terrible times since you went 
away. How terrible I cannot tell you,” and her eyes filled 
with tears as she looked in mine.” 

So we sat down by the low window, holding each other’s 
hands, thinking scarce anything save the joy of the other’s 
presence. The primroses were starring the grass without, 
and the blossom coming thick and fast on the cherry trees. 
So glad a world it was that it seemed as if all were vanity 
save a dwelling like the Lotophagi in a paradise of idleness. 

But I quickly roused myself. It was no time for making 
love when the enemy were even now at the gates. 

“ Marjory, lass,” I said, “ tell me all that has been done 
since I went away.” 

And she told me, and a pitiful tale it was—that which I 
had heard from Nicol, but more tragic and sad. I heard 
of her brother’s ruin, how the brave, generous gentleman, 
with a head no better than a weathercock, had gone down 
the stages to besotted infamy. I heard of Gilbert’s mas¬ 
terful knavery, of his wooing at Dawyck, and how he 
had despoiled the house of Barns. It seemed that he had 
spent days at Dawyck in the company of Michael Veitch, 
putting my poor Marjory to such a persecution that I 
could scarce bide still at the hearing of it. He would 
importune her night and day, now by gallantry and now by 
threats. Then he would seek to win her favour by acts of 
daring, such as he well knew how to do. But mostly he 
trusted to the influence of her brother, who was his aider 
and abetter in all things. I marvelled how a gentleman 
of family could ever sink so low as to be the servant of such 
cowardice. But so it was, and my heart was sore for all 


THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK 


161 


the toils which the poor girl had endured in that great, 
desolate house, with no certain hope for the future. She 
durst not write a letter, for she was spied on closely by her 
tormentors, and if she had bade me return, they well knew 
I would come with the greatest speed, and so in knowing 
the time of my arrival, would lay hands on me without 
trouble. The letter which reached me was sealed under 
her brother’s eyes and the postscript was added with the 
greatest pains and sent by Tam Todd, who sat at Bams in 
wrath and impotence. Truly things had gone wrong with 
a hearty goodwill since I had ridden away. 

But the matter did not seem much better now that I had 
returned. I was an outlawed man, with no dwelling and 
scarce any friends, since the men of my own house were 
either hostile or powerless to aid. My estates were a prey 
to my enemies. I had naught to trust to save my own 
good fortune and a tolerably ready sword, and, to crown 
ail, my love was in the direst danger. If she abode at 
Dawyck the bitter persecution must be renewed, and that 
the poor maid should suffer this was more than I could 
endure. I had no fear of her faithfulness, for I knew of 
old her steadfast heart and brave spirit, but I feared my 
cousin as I feared no other on earth. He cared not a fig 
for scruples of ordinary men, and he was possessed of a 
most devilish cunning, before which I felt powerless as a 
babe. Yet I doubtless wronged him by suspicion, for, 
after all, he was a Burnet, and fought openly as a man of 
honour should. But he had a gang of marauding ruffians 
at his heels, and God alone knew what might happen. 

At all events, I must wait till what time my servant 
Nicol should arrive from Leith. I had no fear of his failing, 
for he had the readiest wit that ever man had, and I verily 
believe the longest legs. He should be at Dawyck ere 
noonday, when he should advise me as to my course. Nor 
was there any immediate danger pressing, for so long as 
Gilbert abode at Leith he could not come to Dawyck, and 
unless our schemes grievously miscarried, he could not yet 
have been apprised of my escape. Moreover, the soldiers 

F 


16a JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

to whom I had given the slip the night before, could as yet 
have no inkling either of my identity or my present harbour. 
So for the meantime I was safe to meditate on the future. 

Marjory, woman-like, was assured that now I had come 
back her sorrows were at an end. She would hear nothing 
of danger to be. “ Now that you are here, John,” she would 
say, “ I am afraid of nothing. I do not care if Gilbert 
return and plague me a thousandfold more ; I shall well 
support it if I know that you are in the land. It is for 
you I fear, for what must you do save go to the hills and 
hide like the hillmen in caves and peatbogs ? It is surely 
a sad use for your learning, sir.” 

So the morning passed so quickly that I scarce knew it. 
We went together to a little turret-room facing the north 
and fronting the broad avenue which all must pass who 
come to the house ; and here we waited for the coming of 
Nicol. I felt a fierce regret as I looked away over the woods 
and meadows to the little ridge of hills beyond which lay 
Barns, and saw the fair landscape all bathed in spring sun¬ 
shine. It was so still and peaceful that I felt a great desire 
to dwell there with Marjory in quiet, and have done for 
ever with brawling and warfare. I had come home from 
the Low Countries with a longing for the plain country 
life of Tweeddale, such as I had been bred to. I was pre¬ 
pared in heart to get ready my fishing-rods and see to my 
guns, and begin again my long-loved sports. But harsh 
fate had decreed otherwise, and I was to fare forth like a 
partridge on the mountains, and taste the joys of the chase 
in a new manner. But at the thought my spirits rose again. 
I would love dearly to play a game of hide-and-go-seek with 
my cousin Gilbert, and so long as I had my sword and my 
wits about me, I did not fear. My one care was Marjory, 
and this, in truth, was a sore one. I cursed my cousin 
right heartily, and all his belongings, and vowed, deep down 
in my heart, to recompense him some day for all his doings. 

It is true that all this while it lay open to me to brazen 
it out before His Majesty’s Council, and try to clear my 
name from guilt. But as the hours passed this method 


HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END 163 

grew more distasteful to me. There I should be in a strange 
place among enemies and scenes of which I knew nothing. 
Innocent though I might be, it was more than likely that 
I should find myself worsted. More, it seemed the gallanter 
thing to contest the matter alone among the hills, a fight 
between soldiers, with no solemn knaves to interfere. So 
by this time I had all but resolved on the course which my 
servant had first advised. 

About twelve of the clock we saw a long figure slinking 
up the avenue, keeping well in the shade of the trees, and 
looking warily on all sides. I knew my man, and going 
down to the door, I set it open, and waited for his coming. 
Nor did I wait long. When he saw me he changed his walk 
for a trot, and came up breathing hard, like a hound which 
has had a long run. I led him into the dining-hall, and 
Marjory prepared for him food and drink. Never a word 
spoke he till he had satisfied his hunger. Then he pushed 
back his chair, and looking sadly at my lady, shook his 
head as though in dire confusion. 

“ A bonny bigging, Maister John,” he said, “ but ye’ll 
sune hae to leave it.” 

" That’s a matter on which I have waited for your com¬ 
ing,” said I, “ but I would hear how you fared since I left 
you.” 

" I’ve nae guid news,” he said sadly, " but such as they 
are ye maun e’en hear them.” 

And this was the tale he told. 


CHAPTER IV 

HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END 

“ When you had gone oot,” began Nicol, " I just waited 
till I heard your footsteps gang oot o’ the yaird. Syne I 
gaed dounstairs to the landlord, whae is a decent, comfort¬ 
able kind o’ man wi’ no muckle ill aboot him. I telled 
him that my maister was terrible unweel, and on no accoont 
maun be disturbit, but that he maun hae the room to himser 


164 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

for the nicht. The man was verra vexed to hear aboot ye. 
‘ Sae young a chiel,’ says he, ‘ it's awfu’.’ So I got my will, 
and I kenned I wad be troubled by nae folk cornin' and 
spewin' aboot the place. There was nae reason why I 
shouldna gang awa’ and leave the lawin’, but I had a kind 
o’ irkin’ to get anither glisk o’ the sodgers, so I e’en gaed 
into the room aside them. 

“ They were noo mair uproarious than afore. Nane 
were drunk, for ’faith, the Captain wasna the man to let 
his men dae that, but a’ were gey an wild and carin’ little 
aboot their language. The Captain sits at the heid o’ the 
table sippin’ his toddy wi’ that dour stieve face o’ his that 
naething could move, and that ye think wad be ashamed to 
sae muckle as lauch. But Maister Veitch wasna like him. 
He was singin’ and roarin’ wi’ the loudest, and takin’ great 
wauchts frae the bowl, far mair than was guid for him. 

By and by he gets up on his feet. 

“ ‘ A health to the Captain,’ he says. ' Drink, lads, to 
the welfare o’ that most valiant soldier and gentleman. 
Captain Gilbert Burnet. Ye a' ken the errand ye’re come 
on, to lay hands on a rebel and take him to his proper place, 
and I drink to your guid success in the matter.’ And he 
lifts up his glass and spills some o’ it ower the table. 

“ At this there was a great uproar, and they a’ rose wi' 
their glasses and cried on the Captain. He sat a’ the while 
wi’ a sort o’ scornfu’ smile on his face, as if he were half 
pleased, but thocht little o’ the folk that pleased him. 

" ‘ I thank you,’ he says at last. r I thank you all, my 
men, for your goodwill. We have done well together in the 
past, and we’ll do better in time to come. I will prove to 
the rebel folk o’ this land that Gilbert Burnet will make 
them obey.’ 

“ ‘ Faith, Gilbert,’ says Maister Veitch, * hae ye no the 
grace to speak o’ your verra guid friend ? I think ye’re 
beholden to me for a hantle o’ your success.’ 

The Captain looks at him wi’ a glint o’ guid humour. 
* No more, Michael,’ says he, f than the cook owes to the 
scullion. You do my dirty work.’ 


HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END 165 

" ' Dirty work, quotha,’ cried Maister Veitch, who was 
hot and flustered with wine. ' I wouldna tak that from 
any other than yoursel’, Gilbert, and maybe no from you.’ 

Take it or not, just as you please,’ said the Captain 
scornfully. ‘ It’s no concern o’ mine.’ 

" This angered the other, and he spoke up fiercely : 

ff, Iam of as guid blood as yoursel,’ Gilbert Burnet. Is a 
Tweeddale gentleman no as guid as a bit westland lairdie ? ’ 
Faith, that is too much,’ says the Captain. ‘ Michael, 
I’ll make you answer for this yet.’ So he sat with lowered 
brows, while Maister Veitch, to a’ appearance, had for¬ 
gotten the words he had spoken. 

“ In a little the Captain dismisses the men to their 
sleeping-quarters, and the pair were left alone, save for 
mysel’, whae being in the dark shadows near the door 
escaped the sicht o’ a’. The two gentlemen sat at the board 
eyeing each other with little love. By and by Gilbert speaks. 

" * Ye called me a bit westland lairdie no long syne, Maister 
Veitch, if ye’ll be remembering.’ 

“ The ither looks up. ‘ And what if I did ? ’ says he. 
' Is’t no the fact ? ’ 

" ' That it’s no the fact I have a damned good mind to 
let you see,’ says the ither. 

“ Michael looks at him askance. ' This is a gey queer 
way to treat your friends. I’ve done a’ in my power to 
aid you-in a’ your pliskies. I’ve turned clean against the 
Laird o’ Barns, who never did me ony ill, a’ for the sake o* 
you. And forbye that, I’ve done what I could to further 
your cause wi’ my sister, who is none so well inclined to 
you. And this is a’ the thanks I get for it, Gilbert ? ’ 

“ I saw by the dour face o’ the Captain that he was mortal 
thrawn. 

“ ‘ And a’ the thanks ye are likely to get,’ says he. ‘ Is’t 
no enough that a man o’ my birth and fame should be will¬ 
ing to mate wi’ one 0’ your paltry house, a set o’ thieves and 
reivers wi’ no claim to honour save the exaltation o’ the 
gallows-rope ? Gad, I think it’s a mighty favour that I 
should be so keen to take the lass from among you.’ 


166 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ ‘ By Heaven, that is too much to swallow!' said 
Maister Michael, as some sparks o’ proper feeling lose in 
him at last; and he struggled to his feet. 

“ The Captain also rose and looked at him disdainfully. 

“ ‘ What would you do ? ' said he. 

" * This,’ said the other, clean carried wi’ anger ; and he 
struck him a ringing lick on the face. 

“ Gilbert went back a step, and (for his honour I say it) 
hept his wrath doun. 

“ ‘ That’s a pity,’ says he ; ' that was a bad action o’ 
yours, Michael, as ye’ll soon ken. I’ll trouble ye to draw.’ 

“ I hae felt vexed for mony folk in my life, but never 
for yin sae muckle as puir Maister Veitch. He reddened 
and stumbled and plucked his sword from its sheath. He 
was dazed wi’ wine and drowsiness, but his enemy made 
uocht o’ that. 

“ They crossed swirds and I watched them fall to. I was 
terrible feared, for I saw fine that the yin was as angry as 
a bull, the ither as helpless as a sheep. It was aginst a’ 
decency to let sic a thing gang on, so I ran forrit and cried 
on them to stop. ‘ D’ye no see the man’s fair helpless ? ’ 
I cried out; but they never seemed to hear me, but went 
at it as hard as ever. 

“ At first baith fought nane sae bad, for baith were braw 
swordsmen, and even in sic a plight Michael’s skill didna 
desert him. Gilbert, too, was quieter than was to be expec- 
tit. But of a sudden a wild fury seized him. ‘ I’ll teach 
ye to speak ill o’ me and my house,’ he cried in a voice like 
thunder, and cam on like a storm o’ hail. 

“ Michael fell back and tried to defend himsel’. But the 
puir lad was sae dazed and foundered that frae the first he 
had nae chance. His blade wabbled at every guaird, and 
he never risked a cut. It was just like a laddie gettin’ his 
paiks frae a maister and keepin' off the clouts wi’ yae airm. 

“ And then he let his sword drop, whether wi’ weariness 
or no I canna tell, and stood glowrin’ afore him. The 
Captain never stopped. I dinna think he ettled it, for 
when he began I think he didna mean mair than to punish 


HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END 167 

him for his words. But now he lunged clean and true. 
Nae sword kept it aff, nae coat o’ mail wardit it, but deep 
into Michael’s breast it sank. Wi’ yae groan he fell back, 
and the breath gaed frae his body. 

" I could hardly contain mysel’ wi’ rage and sorrow. At 
first I was for rinnin’ forrit and throttlin’ the man, but I 
got a glimpse o’ his face, and that keepit me. It was dark 
as a thunder-clud, and regret and unquenched anger lookit 
oot o’ his een. 

“ * This is a black business,’ he says to himsel’, ‘ a black, 
damnable business. God knows I never meant to kill the 
fool.' And he began to walk up and down wi’ his heid on 
his breast. 

“ I felt that I had seen eneuch. My whole hert was sick 
wi’ the peety o’ the thing, and forbye it was time for me to 
be going if I was ever to win to Tweedside. So I slips frae 
the house, which was still quiet, for naebody kenned o’ 
the deed, and far away somewhere I heard the lilt o' a 
sodger’s song. I sped doun the Harbour Walk and syne 
into Embro’, as though the deil were ahint me. When I 
won to Auchendinny it was aboot three in the mornin’, 
and I made a’ the haste I could. I think I maun hae run 
a’ the road frae there to Leidburn. Then I took ower the 
Cloch hills and doun by Harehope and the Meldons. I 
crossed Lyne abune the Brig, and came doun Stobo bum, 
and here I am. I never met a soul for good or ill, so the 
land’s quieter thereaways than folk make it oot. But doun 
by the Eddleston Water there’s a geyan nest o’ sodgers, so 
ye’ve nae time to lose, Laird, if ye wad win to the hills.” 

When I turned to Marjory at the close of this tale she 
was weeping silently ; yet there was little bitterness in her 
tears. Her brother had, after all, made a better end than 
one could have guessed from his life. Indeed, I had small 
cause to feel kindness to him, for he had betrayed his trust, 
and had been the author of all the ills which had come upon 
my mistress. But for her sake I was sad. 

“ Marjory,” I said, “ I have many scores to settle with 
my cousin, for all his life he has done me ill, and the time 


168 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

will come when I shall pay them. I will add this to the 
others. Be assured, dear, that your brother shall not be 
unavenged." 

And Marjory dried her tears, and from that hour spake 
never a word of Michael. But I knew well that deep in 
her heart remained an abiding sorrow which chastened the 
gaiety of her spirits. 


CHAPTER V 

I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS 

And now I set myself resolutely to think out something that 
might be the saving of my life and my love. I was in a 
perilous case, for when Gilbert found that I had escaped 
him, he would come on forthwith to Dawyck, and, in all 
likelihood, be here ere nightfall. One thing was clear—• 
that I could not bide myself nor leave Marjory to his tender 
mercies. The hills for me ; and for her—ah, that was the 
rub in the matter ! 

At last I made out some semblance of a plan. On the 
edge of Douglasdale, in the shire of Lanark, dwelt William 
Veitch at the house of Smitwood, the uncle of the dead Sir 
John, an old man well fallen in the vale of years. He was 
unmolested by all, being a peaceable soldier who had served 
God and the king in his day, and now thought of nothing 
save making a good ending. He would gladly take the lass, 
I knew, and shelter her till such time as I should come and 
take her again. Nor would Gilbert follow her thither, for 
no word should come to his ear of her destined harbour, 
and he knew naught of the place nor the relationship. The 
plan came upon me with such convincing force that I took 
no other thought on the matter. Nicol should be left 
there both as a guard of the place—and who so vigilant ? 
—and as some means of communication between me and 
my mistress. For my own part, when once I had seen my 
lass safely sheltered, I should take to the hills with a light 
heart. I should love to be free and careless among the 


I CLAIM A PROMISE 169 

wide moors, and try my wits in a fair contest against my 
sweet cousin. 

I told the thing to Nicol and he gladly agreed. Then I 
sought out Marjory, who had gone to make some prepara¬ 
tions for my flight, and found her talking gravely to the 
old man, the only remaining servant. I drew her to the 
little oak parlour. 

" Marjory, lass,” I said, " I am but new come home, and 
I little thought to have to take flight again so soon. Do you 
mind ere I went to the Low Countries I came here to bid 
you farewell, and you sang me a song ? ” 

" I mind it well,” said she. 

" Have you a remembrance of the air, my dear ? How 
did it go ? ” and I whistled a stave. 

“ Ay, even so. You have a good ear, John.” 

“ I think, too, that I have mind of a verse or so,” said I. 
" There was one which ran like this : 

“ * And if he were a soldier gay, 

And tarried from the town, 

And sought in wars, through death and scars. 

To win for him renown, 

I’d place his colours in my breast, 

And ride by moor and lea, 

And win his side, there to abide, 

And bear him company.’ 

Was it not so ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, smiling; “ how well you remember, 
John.” 

“ And there was a refrain, too,” I went on. 

*' * For sooth a maid, all unafraid, 

Should by her lover be, 

With wile and art to cheer his heart, 

And bear him company.’ ” 

Marjory blushed. “ Why do you remind me of my old 
song ? ” she said. “ It pains me, for I used to sing it ere 
the trouble came upon us, and when we were all as happy 
as the day was long.” 

“ Nay,” I said, “ it is a song for the time of trouble. It 
was your promise to me, and I have come to claim its fulfil- 


170 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

ment. I am for the hills, Marjory, and I cannot leave yon 
behind. Will you come and bear me company ? I will 
take you to Smitwood, where even the devil and my cousin 
Gilbert could not follow you. There you will be safe till I 
come again when this evil time is past, for pass it must. 
And I will go to the hills with a blithe heart, if once I knew 
you were in good keeping.” 

“ Oh, John, to be sure I will follow you,” she said, “ even 
to the world’s end. I will fare among rough hills and bogs 
if I may but be near you. But I will go to Smitwood, for 
most terribly I dread this place.” 

So it was all brought to a conclusion, and it but remained 
to make ready with all speed and seek the uplands. We 
trusted ourselves wholly to Nicol’s guidance, for he knew 
the ways as he knew his own name, and had a wide acquain¬ 
tance with the hillmen and their hiding-places. On him it 
lay to find shelter for us on the road and guide us by the 
most unfrequented paths. So we set about the preparing 
of provisions and setting the house in order. The old man, 
who was the sole servant remaining, was left in charge of 
the place against our uncertain return. For myself I should 
have taken but one horse, Marjory’s roan mare, and tramped 
along on foot; but Nicol bade me take Maisie, for, said he, 
“ I’ll tak ye by little-kenned ways, where ye may ride as 
easy as walk ; and forbye, if it cam to the bit, a horse is a 
usefu’ cratur for rinnin’ awa on. I could trot fine on my 
feet mysel’, but though ye’re a guid man at the sma’-swird, 
Laird, I doubt ye’d no be muckle at that.” The words 
were wise, so I saddled Maisie and prepared to ride her to 
Smitwood, and there leave her. 

It was, I think, about three hours after midday when we 
were ready to start on our journey .A strange cavalcade 
we formed—Marjory on the roan, dressed plainly as for the 
hills, and with a basket slung across the saddlebow, for all 
the world like a tinker’s pannier ; I myself on Maisie, well- 
mounted and armed, and Nicol on foot, lean and ill-clad 
as ever. It was not without a pang that we set out, for it 
is hard to leave the fair and settled dwellings of home for 


I CLAIM A PROMISE 


171 

haphazard lodging among rough morasses. Marjory in 
especial could scarce refrain from tears, while I own that as 
I looked down the vale and saw the woods of Barns and the 
green hills of Manor, I could have found it in me to be 
despondent. 

But once we left the valley and began to ascend the slopes, 
our spirits returned. It was an afternoon among a thou¬ 
sand, one such as only April weather and the air of the 
Tweed valley can bring. The sky was cloudless and the 
wind sharp, and every hill and ridge in the great landscape 
stood out clear as steel. The grass was just greening beneath 
our feet, the saugh bushes were even now assuming the 
little white catkins, and the whole air was filled with a 
whistling and twittering of birds. We took our road straight 
through the pine wood which clothes the western slopes of 
Scrape. The ground was velvet-dry, and the deer fled 
swiftly as we neared their coverts. It was glorious to be 
abroad and feel the impulse of life stirring everywhere 
around. Yet I could not keep from the reflection that at 
this very time the day before I had been nearing the port 
of Leith in the Seamaw, expecting nothing save a pleasant 
home-coming, and thereafter a life of peace. Truly in one 
short day and night I had led a somewhat active life, and 
now was fleeing from the very place I had most longed to 
return to. 

Soon we left the woods and came out on the heathery 
brow of Scrape, and crossing it, entered the deep glen where 
the burn of Scrape flows to join the Powsail. The heather 
had been burned, as is the custom here in the early spring, 
and great clouds of fine white dust rose beneath the hooves 
of our horses. A dry crackling of twigs and the strident 
creak of the larger roots as they grated on one another, filled 
our ears. Then once more we ascended, high and ever 
higher, over rocks and treacherous green well-eyes and great 
spaces of red fern, till we gained the brow of the hill which 
they call Glenstivon Dod, and looked down into the little 
glen of Powsail. 

We crossed the lovely burn of Powsail, which is the most 


172 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

beautiful of all Tweedside burns, since the water is like 
sapphire and emerald and topaz, flashing in every ray like 
myriad jewels. Here we watered our horses, and once 
more took the hills. And now we were on the wild ridge 
of upland which heads the glens of Stanhope and Hope- 
carton and Polmood, the watershed ’twixt the vales of 
Tweed and Yarrow. Thence the sight is scarce to be 
matched to my knowledge in the south country of Scotland. 
An endless stretching of hills, shoulder rising o’er shoulder, 
while ever and again some giant lifts himself clean above 
his fellows, and all the while in the glen at our feet Tweed 
winding and murmuring. 

I asked Nicol what was the purpose of our journey, for 
this was by no means the shortest way to Douglasdale and 
Smitwood. He answered that to go straight to our desti¬ 
nation would be to run our heads into the lion’s mouth. 
He purposed that we should go up Tweed to a hiding-place 
which he knew of on the Cor Water, and then make over 
by the upper waters of the Clyde and the Abington moors 
to the house of Smitwood. These were the more deserted 
and least accessible places, whereas the villages and low¬ 
lands around the skirts of the hills were watched like the 
High Street of Edinburgh. 

In a little we passed the wild trough where the Stanhope 
Bum flows toward Tweed. It was now drawing toward 
the darkening, and the deep, black glen seemed dark as 
the nether pit. Had we not had a guide to whom the place 
was familiar as his own doorstep, we should soon have been 
floundering over some craig. As it was, our case was not 
without its danger. It is not a heartening thing to go 
stumbling on hilltops in the dusk of an April evening, with 
black, horrific hill-slopes sinking on all sides. Marjory 
grew frightened, as I knew by the tightened clutch at her 
horse’s rein, and her ever seeking to draw nearer me, but 
like the brave lass that she was, she breathed never a word 
of it. Every now and then an owl would swoop close to 
our faces, or a great curlew dart out of the night with its 
shrill scream, and vanish again into the dark. It was an 


I CLAIM A PROMISE 


173 


uncanny place at that hour, and one little to be sought by 
those who love comfort and peace. But the very difficulty 
of the way gladdened us, for it gave us assurance that we 
would be unmolested by wayfaring dragoons. By and by 
stars came out and the moon rose, glorious and full as on 
the night before, when I had ridden from Leith. Then it 
served to light my course to Dawyck, now to guide me 
from it. 

We were now descending a steep hillside, all rough with 
sklidders, and coming to the Water of Talla, which we 
forded at a shallow a little below the wild waterfall called 
Talla Linns. Even there we could hear the roar of the 
cataract, and an awesome thing it was in that lonely place. 
But we tarried not a minute, but urged our horses up a 
desperate ravine till once more we were on the crest of the 
hills. And now a different land was around us. Far to 
the right, where the Talla joins the Tweed, we could mark 
the few lights of the little village of Tweedsmuir. The 
higher hills had been left behind, and we were on a wide 
expanse of little ridges and moor which the people of Tweed- 
side call “ The Muirs,” and which extends from the upper 
Clyde waters to the source of the Annan and the monstrous 
hills which line its course. I had been but once before in 
the place, in the winter time, when I was shooting the duck 
which come here in great plenty. To me, then, it had 
seemed the bleakest place in God’s creation, but now, under 
the silver moonlight, it seemed like a fantastic fairyland, 
and the long, gleaming line of Tweed like the fabled river 
which is the entrance to that happy domain. 

We were now near our journey’s end, and in the very 
heart of the moors of Tweed. The night was bright with 
moonlight, and we went along speedily. Soon we came to 
a narrow upland valley, walled with precipitous green hills. 
Here Nicol halted. 

“ There’ll be watchers aboot,” he said, “ and our coming 
'ill hae been tellt to the folk in the cave. We’d better gang 
warily.” So we turned our horses up the glen, riding along 
the narrow strip of meadow land beside the bum. I had 


174 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

heard of the place before, and knew if for the Cor Water, 
a stream famous for trout, and at this time, no less renowned 
among the hillmen as a hiding-place. For in the steep 
craigs and screes there were many caves and holes where 
one might lie hid for months. 

Soon we came to a steep, green bank, and here we drew 
rein. Nicol whistled on his fingers, with a peculiar, pierc¬ 
ing note like a whaup’s cry. It was answered by another 
from the near neighbourhood. Again Nicol whistled with 
a different pitch, and this time a figure came out from 
the hillside, and spoke. 

“ Whae are ye,” he said, “ that come here, and what do 
ye seek ? If ye come in the Lord's name, welcome and a 
night’s lodging await ye. If no, fire and a sword.” 

“ I’m Nicol Plenderleith,” said my servant, “ as weel ye 
ken, John Laidlaw. And these are twae gentlefolk, whose 
names are no convenient to be mentioned here, for hillsides 
hae ears. If ye come near, I'll whisper it in your lug.” 

The man approached and appeared well satisfied. He 
bade us dismount and led the horses off, while we waited. 
Then he returned, and bidding us follow, led the way up a 
steep gully which scarred the hillside. In a little he stopped 
at an out-jutting rock, and crept round the corner of it. 
At the side next the hill was an opening large enough to 
allow a man of ordinary stature to pass, and here he entered 
and motioned us to follow. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER 

The place we found ourselves in was a narrow passage, 
very lofty and very dark, and with countless jags of rough 
stone on all sides to affront the stranger. Some few paces 
led us into a wider place, lit by some opening on the hill¬ 
side, for a gleam as of pale moonlight was all about it. 
There stood a sentinel, a tall, grave man, dressed in coarse 
homespun, and brown of the face. Through this again we 


THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER 175 

passed into another straitened place, which in a little opened 
into a chamber of some magnitude. 

When I grew accustomed to the candle-light, I made out 
that it was a natural cave in the whinstone rocks, maybe 
thirty feet in height, square in shape, and not less than 
thirty feet long. The black sides were rough and crusted, 
and hung in many parts with articles of household gear and 
warlike arms. But the place was less notable than the 
people who were sitting there, and greeted us as we entered. 
In the midst was a table of rough-hewn wood, whereon 
lay the remnants of a meal. Lit pine-staves cast an eerie 
glow over all things, and in the light I saw the faces of the 
company clear. 

On a settle of stone covered with a sheep’s fleece sat an 
old man, large of limb and tall, but bent and enfeebled with 
age. His long hair fell down almost to his shoulders ; his 
features as the light fell upon them were strong, but his 
eyes were sightless and dull as stone. He had a great stick 
in his hand which he leaned on, and at our entrance he had 
risen and stared before him into vacancy, conscious of some 
new presence, but powerless to tell of it. Near him, along 
by the table-side, were two men of almost like age, square, 
well-knit fellows, with the tanned faces of hillmen. I 
guessed them to be shepherds or folk of that sort who had 
fled to this common refuge. Beyond these again stood a 
tall, slim man of a more polished exterior than the rest ; 
his attitude had something of grace in it, and his face and 
bearing proclaimed him of better birth. Forbye, there 
were one or two more, gaunt, sallow folk, such as I had 
learned to know as the extreme religionists. These were 
busy conversing together with bowed heads and earnest 
voices, and took no heed of our arrival. To add to all, 
there were two women, one with a little child, clearly the 
wives of the shepherds. 

Our guide went forward to the man who stood by the 
wall and whispered something to him. In an instant he 
came to us, and, bowing to Marjory, bade us welcome. 
“ We are glad to see vou here, Master Burnet,” said he. 


176 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

"I am rejoiced to see the gentlemen of the land coming 
forth on the side of the Covenant. It is you and such as 
you that we need, and we are blithe to give you shelter here 
as long as you care to bide with us. It is a queer thing 
that two men of the same house should be engaged in this 
business on different sides.” 

Here one of the others spoke up. 

“ I trust. Master Burnet, ye have brought us good news 
from the Lawlands. We heard that ye had great converse 
with the godly there, and we will be glad to hear your 
account of how the guid cause prospers over the water.” 

Now I felt myself in a position of much discomfort. The 
cause of my outlawry had clearly got abroad, and here was 
I, credited with being a zealous religionist and a great man 
among the Scots exiles in Holland. Whereas, as I have 
already said, I cared little for these things, being not of a 
temper which finds delight in little differences of creed or 
details of ecclesiastical government, but caring little in 
what way a man may worship his Maker. Indeed, to this 
day, while I can see the advantage of having fixed rites and 
a church established, I see little use in making a pother 
about any deviation. So I now found myself in an un¬ 
pleasing predicament. I must avow my utter ignorance 
of such matters and my worldly motives for thus seeking 
shelter, and in all likelihood, win the disfavour of these folk, 
nay, even be not suffered to remain. 

“ I thank you for your welcome,” said I, “ but I must 
hasten to set matters right between us. I am not of your 
party, though it is my misfortune to have to seek safety 
among the hills. It is true I have been in the Low Coun¬ 
tries, but it was for the purposes of study and seeing the 
world, and not for the sake of religion. If I must speak the 
truth, when I abode there I had little care of such things, 
for they were never in my way. Now that I am returned 
and find myself a fugitive, I am not a whit more concerned 
with them. My misfortunes arise from the guile of a kins¬ 
man, and not from my faith. So there you have my 
predicament.” 


THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER 


177 


I made the declaration crudely and roughly, for the 
necessity was urgent upon me of making it very plain at the 
outset. Another man would have been repelled or angered, 
but this man had the penetration to see through my mask 
of callousness that I was not ill-disposed to his cause. 

It is no matter," he said. “ Though you were the 
most rabid malignant, we would yet give you shelter. And, 
indeed, though you may not be of our way of thinking in 
all matters, yet I doubt not you are with us on the essen¬ 
tials. Forbye, you are a gentleman of Tweeddale, and it 
would be queer if you werena right-hearted. Master John 
Burnet." 

Some one of the disputants grumbled, but the others 
seemed heartily to share in this opinion, and bidding us sit 
down, they removed our travelling gear, and set food before 
us. Our appetites were sharp with the long hill journey, 
and we were not slow in getting to supper. Meanwhile the 
long man to whom we had first spoken busied himself with 
serving us, for in that desert place every man was his own 
servant. Afterwards Marjory went to the women, and soon 
won their liking, for the heart would be hard indeed which 
was not moved by her pretty ways and graces. 

When I had done I sat down on the settle with the rest, 
and the fire which burned in a comer of the cave was made 
up, and soon the place was less dismal but a thousandfold 
more fantastic. I could scarce keep from thinking that it 
was all a dream ; that my landing, and midnight ride, and 
Nicol’s news, and my perilous predicament were all figments 
of the brain. I was too tired to have any anxiety, for I 
would have you remember that I had ridden all the night 
and most of the day without a wink of sleep, besides having 
just come off a sea voyage. My eyelids drooped, and I was 
constantly sinking off into a doze. The whole place tended 
to drowsiness ; the shadows and the light, the low hum of 
talk, the heavy air, for the outlet for smoke was but narrow. 
But the man I have spoken of came and sat down beside 
me and would engage me in talk. 

" I do not think you know me, Master Burnet,” said he ; 


178 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ but I knew your father well, and our houses used to be 
well acquaint. I am one o’ the Carnwath Lockharts, that 
ye may hae heard o’. My name is Francis Lockhart o’ the 
Beltyne." 

I knew him when he uttered the words, for I had often 
heard tell of him for a gallant gentleman who had seen 
service under Gustavus and in many Low Country wars. I 
complimented myself on his acquaintance, which kindness 
he proceeded to repay. So we fell to discussing many things 
—men I had known in Leyden, men I had known in Tweed- 
dale, together with the more momentous question of the 
future of each of us. I gave him a full account of my recent 
fortunes, that he might have wherewith to contradict any 
rumours as to my reasons for taking to the hills. He in 
turn spoke to me of his life, and his sorrow at the fate of 
his land. The man spoke in such unfeigned grief, and 
likewise with such a gentleman-like note of fairness, that 
I felt myself drawn to him. It was while thus engaged that 
he spoke a word which brought upon him the condemnation 
of one of the others. 

“ Oh," said he, “ I would that some way might be found 
to redd up thae weary times and set the king richt on his 
throne, for I canna but believe that in this matter loyalty 
and religion go hand in hand ; and that were James Stewart 
but free from his wanchancy advisers there would be less 
talk of persecuting." 

At this one of the others, a dark man from the West, 
spoke up sharply. “ What do I hear, Maister Lockhart ? 
It’s no by onjr goodwill to James Stewart that we can hope 
to set things richt in thae dark times. Rather let our 
mouths be filled with psalms and our hands with the sword- 
hilt, and let us teach the wanton and the scorner what 
manner o’ men are bred by the Covenant and the Word." 

The speech was hateful to me, and yet as I looked in the 
dark, rugged face of the man I could not keep from liking 
it. Here, at any rate, was a soul of iron. My heart stirred 
at his words, and I could have found it in me to cast in my 
lot even with such as these, and bide the bent with naught 


THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER 


179 


but a good sword and faith in God. Howbeit, it was well I 
made no such decision, for I was never meant for one of 
them. I ever saw things too clearly, both the evil and the 
good ; and whereas this quality hinders from swift and reso¬ 
lute action, it yet leads more plainly to a happy life. 

Then the old man, him whom I have spoken of, beckoned 
to me with his staff and bade me come and sit by him. He 
looked so king-like even in his affliction that I thought on 
the old blind king CEdipus in the Greek play. 

“Ye kenna me, John Burnet, but weel ken I you. Often 
in the auld days your father and me had gey ploys hunting 
and fechting roond a’ the muirs o’ Tweed. He was a guid 
man, was Gilbert, and I hear he had glimpses o’ grace in 
the hinner end.” 

“ Maybe,” said I, being in perplexity, for from the grace 
that he spoke of, my father had ever been far. 

“ Ay, and I was sair vexed I saw him so little. For he 
had to bide at hame for the last years, and I was aye 
busied wi’ other work. Yeddie o’ the Linns was never an 
idle man, and less than ever in thae days.” 

At the mention of his name a flood of recollection came 
upon me. I minded how I had heard of the son of Lord 
Fairley, a great soldier who had won high renown in the 
wars abroad : and how he had returned a melancholy man, 
weighed down with the grave cares of religion, and gone to 
the wilds of Tweed to a hut just above the Linns of Talla, 
where h^ spent his days in prayer and meditation. The 
name of Yeddie o’ the Linns, as he was called among the 
shepherds and folk of these parts, became an equivalent for 
high-hearted devotion. Then when the wars began tales of 
him grew over the countryside. In stature he was all but 
gigantic, famed over half the towns of France for feats of 
strength, and no evil living had impaired his might. So at 
the outbreak of the persecution he had been a terror to the 
soldiers who harried these parts. The tale ran of the four 
men whom he slew single-handed at the Linns, hemming 
them in a nook of rocks, and how often he had succoured 
fugitives and prisoners, coming like an old lion from the 


180 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

hills and returning no one knew whither. There was also 
the tale of his blinding by a chance splinter from a bullet- 
shot, and how he had lived among the caves and hills, 
dangerous even in his affliction. Had I but known it, this 
cave was his finding, and half the retreats in Tweeddale and 
Clydesdale were known to him. But now he was an old 
man, who had long left his youth, and his strength had all 
but gone from him. He sat alone in his great darkness, 
speaking little to the inmates or the chance comers, save 
when he knew them for gentlemen of birth ; for though he 
might risk his life for the common people, he had no care to 
associate with them, being of the old Kirkpatricks of that 
ilk, as proud a house as is to be found in the land. 

“You are not of us,” he said suddenly. “ I heard you say 
a moment agone that you had no share in the inheritance of 
Jacob, but still chose to dwell among the tents of sin.” 

“Nay,” I said very gently, for he was very old and of 
noble presence, “ do not speak thus. Surely it is no sin to 
live at peace in the good earth in honour and uprightness, 
and let all nice matters of doctrine go by, esteeming it of 
more importance to be a good man and true than a subtle 
disquisitioner—thinking, too, that all such things are of 
little moment and change from age to age, and that to 
concern one’s self much with them is to follow vain trifles. 
For the root of the whole matter is a simple thing on which 
all men are agreed, but the appurtenances are many, and 
to me at least of such small significance that I care for them 
not at all. I do not mind how a man worship his Maker, 
if he have but real devoutness. I do not care how a church 
is governed if the folk in it are in very truth God’s people.” 

“ You speak well, my son,” said he, “ and at one time I 
should have gone with you. Nor do I set any great value 
by doctrine. But you are young and the blood is still rich 
in your veins and the world seems a fair place, with many 
brave things to be achieved. But I am old and have seen 
the folly of all things, how love is only a delusion and 
honour a catchword and loyalty a mockery. And as the 
things of earth slip away from me, and the glory of my 


HOW TWO SERVANTS MET THEIR DESERTS 181 


strength departs, I see more clearly the exceeding greatness 
of the things of God. And as my eyes cease to be set on 
earth, I see more nearly the light of that better country 
which is an heavenly. So I love to bide in these dark 
moors where the pomp of the world comes not, among 
men of grave conversation, for I have leisure and a fitting 
place to meditate upon the things to come." 

“ It may be,” said I, “ that some day I also be of your 
way of thinking. At present the world, though the Devil 
is more loose in it than I love, seems to me so excellent that 
I would pluck the heart of it before I condemn it. But God 
grant that I may never lose sight of the beauty of His 
Kingdom.” 

“ Amen to that,” said the old man very reverently. 

Truly, my thoughts on things were changing. Here was 
I in the very stronghold of the fanatics, and in the two 
chief, the old man and Master Lockhart, I found a reasonable 
mind and lofty purpose. And thus I have ever found it, 
that the better sort of the Covenanters were the very cream 
of Scots gentlefolk, and that ’twas only in the canaille that 
the gloomy passion of fanatics was to be found. 

Meantime Nicol, who cared for none of these things, was 
teaching the child how to play at the cat’s gartems. 


CHAPTER VII 

HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY’S SERVANTS MET WITH 
THEIR DESERTS 

The next mom broke fair and cloudless, and ere the sun 
was up I was awake, for little time must be lost if we sought 
to win to Smitwood ere the pursuit began. The folk of 
the cave were early risers, for the need for retiring early to 
rest made them so ; and we broke our fast with a meal of 
cakes and broiled fish almost before daylight. Then I went 
out to enjoy the fresh air, for it was safe enough to be abroad 
at that hour. Nothing vexed the still air on the green 


182 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

hillside save the flapping peewits and the faint morning 
winds. 

Marjory meantime ran out into the sunshine "with all the 
gaiety in the world. She was just like a child let loose from 
school, for she was ever of a light heart and care sat easily 
upon her. Now, although we were in the direst peril, she 
was taking delight in spring, as if we were once again chil¬ 
dren in Dawyck, catching trout in the deep pools of the 
wood. She left me to go out from the little glen, which was 
the entrance to the cave, into the wider dale of the Cor 
Walter, which ran shallow between lone green braes. I 
heard her singing as she went down among the juniper 
bushes and flinty rocks, and then it died away behind a 
little shoulder of hill. 

So I was left to my own reflections on the plight in which 
I found myself. For the first time a sort of wounded pride 
began to vex me. Formerly I had thought of nothing save 
how to save my own head and keep my love from my 
enemy, and cared not, if in the effecting of it, I had to crouch 
with the fox and be chased by the basest scum of the land. I 
cared not if I were put out of house and home and outlawed 
for years, for the adventurous spirit was strong within me. 
But now all my old pride of race rose in rebellion at the 
thought that I was become a person without importance, a 
houseless wanderer, the sport of my enemies. It made me 
bitter as gall to think of it, and by whose aid my misfortune 
had been effected. A sort of hopeless remorse came over 
me. Should I ever win back the place I had lost ? Would 
the Burnets ever again be great gentlemen of Tweeddale, 
a power in the countryside, having men at their beck and 
call ? Or would the family be gone for ever, would I fall 
in the wilds, or live only to find my lands gone with my 
power, and would Marjory never enter Bams as its mistress ? 
I could get no joy out of the morning for the thought, and 
as I wandered on the hillside I had little care of what 
became of me. 

Now at this time there happened what roused me and 
set me once more at peace with myself. And though it 


HOW TWO SERVANTS MET THEIR DESERTS 183 

came near to being a dismal tragedy, it was the draught 
which nerved me for all my later perils. And this was the 
manner of it. 

Marjory, as she told me herself afterwards, had gone 
down to the little meadows by the bumside, where she 
watched the clear brown water and the fish darting in the 
eddies. She was thus engaged, when she was aware of two 
horsemen who rode over the top of the glen and down the 
long hill on the other side. They were almost opposite 
before she perceived them, and there was no time for flight. 
Like a brave lass she uttered no scream, but stood still that 
they might not see her. But it was of no avail. Their 
roving eyes could not miss in that narrow glen so fair a sight, 
and straightway one called out to the other that there was a 
girl at the burnside. 

Now had the twain been out on an ordinary foray it would 
have gone hard indeed with us. For they would have turned 
aside to search out the matter, and in all likelihood the 
hiding-place would have been discovered. But they had 
been out on some night errand and were returning in hot 
haste to their quarters at Abington, where their captain 
had none too gentle a temper. So they contented them¬ 
selves with shouting sundry coarse railleries, and one in the 
plenitude of his greatheartedness fired his carbine at her. 
Without stopping further they rode on. 

The bullet just grazed her arm above the wrist, cutting 
away a strip of dress. She cried out at the pain, but though 
frightened almost to death, she was brave enough to bide 
where she was, for if she had run straight to the cave it 
would have shown them the hiding-place. As soon as they 
passed out of view she came painfully up the slope, and I 
who had heard the shot and rushed straightway to the 
place whence it came, met her clasping her wounded wrist 
and with a pitiful white face. 

“ O Marjory, what ails you ? " I cried. 

“ Nothing, John/' she answered ; " some soldiers passed 
me and one fired. It has done me no harm. But let us 
get to shelter lest they turn back." 


184 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

At her words I felt my heart rise in a sudden great heat 
of anger. I had never felt such passion before. It seemed 
to whelm and gulf my whole being. 

" Let me carry you, dear,” I said quietly, and lifting her 
I bore her easily up the ravine to the cave. 

When I got her within our shelter there was a very great 
to-do. The women ran up in grief to see the hurt, and the 
men at the news of the military wore graver faces. Master 
Lockhart, who was something of a surgeon, looked at the 
wound. 

" Oh,” he says, " this is nothing, a scratch, and no more. 
It will be well as ever to-morrow. But the poor maid has 
had a fright which has made her weak. I have some choice 
French brandy which I aye carry with me for the fear of such 
accidents. Some of that will soon restore her.” 

So he fetched from some unknown comer the bottle 
which he spake of, and when her lips had been moistened, 
Marjory revived and declared her weakness gone. Now my 
most pressing anxiety was removed, which up till this 
time had been harassing me sore. For if my lady were to be 
hurt in this unfriendly place, what hope of safety would 
there be for either ? When I saw that the wound was but 
trifling, the anger which had been growing in my heart side 
by side with my care, wholly overmastered me. All my 
pride of house and name was roused at the deed. To think 
that the lady who was the dearest to me in the world should 
be thus maltreated by scurrilous knaves of dragoons stirred 
me to fury. I well knew that I could get no peace with the 
thought, and my inclination and good-judgment alike made 
me take the course I followed. 

I called to Nicol, where he sat supping his morning por¬ 
ridge by the fire, and he came to my side very readily. 

“ Get the two horses,” said I quietly, that none of the 
others might hear of my madness, “ one for me and one for 
yourself.” Now the beasts were stabled in the back part 
of the cave, which was roomy and high, though somewhat 
damp. The entrance thereto lay by a like rift in the hillside 
some hundred yards farther up the glen. When I had thus 


HOW TWO SERVANTS MET THEIR DESERTS 185 

bidden my servant I sauntered out into the open air and 
waited his coming with some impatience. 

I asked him, when he appeared, if he had the pistols, for 
he had a great trick of going unarmed and trusting to his 
fleet legs and mother wit rather than the good gifts of God 
to men, steel and gunpowder. 

“ Ay, laird, I hae them, Are ye gaun to shoot muir- 
fowl? ” 

“ Yes,” said I, " I am thinking of shooting a muirfowl 
for my breakfast.” 

Nicol laughed quietly to himself. He knew well the 
errand I was on, or he would not have consented so readily. 

I knew that the two dragoons had ridden straight down 
the Cor Water glen, making for the upper vale of Tweed and 
thence to the Clyde hills. But this same glen of Cor is a 
strangely winding one, and if a man leave it and ride straight 
over the moorland he may save a matter of two miles, and 
arrive at the Tweed sooner than one who has started before 
him. The ground is rough, but, to one used to the hills, 
not so as to keep him from riding it with ease. Also at the 
foot of the burn there is a narrow nick through which it 
thrusts itself in a little cascade to join the larger stream ; 
and through this place the road passes, for all the hills on 
either side are steep and stony, and offer no foothold for a 
horse. Remembering all these things, a plan grew up in my 
mind which I hastened to execute. 

With Nicol following, I rode aslant the low hills to the 
right and came to the benty tableland which we had trav¬ 
elled the day before. The sun was now well up in the sky, 
and the air was so fresh and sweet that it was pure pleasure 
to breathe it. 

After maybe a quarter-hour’s stiff riding we descended, 
and keeping well behind a low spur which hid us from the 
valley, turned at the end into the glen-mouth, at the con¬ 
fluence of the two waters. Then we rode more freely till we 
reached the narrows which I have spoke of, and there we 
halted. All was quiet, nor was there any sound of man or 
horse. 


186 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Do you bide there,” said I to my servant, " while I will 
wait here. Now I will tell you what I purpose to do. The 
two miscreants who shot Mistress Marjory are riding to¬ 
gether on their way to their quarters. One will have no 
shot in his carbine ; what arms the other has I cannot tell; 
but at any rate we two with pistols can hold them in check. 
Do you cover the one on the right when they appear, and 
above all things see that you do not fire.” 

So we waited there, sitting motionless in our saddles, on 
that fair morning when all around us the air was full of 
crying snipe and twittering hill-linnets. The stream made 
a cheerful sound, and the little green ferns in the rocks 
nodded beneath the spray of the water. I found my mind 
misgiving me again and again for the headstrong prank on 
which I was entered, as unworthy of one who knew some¬ 
thing of better things. But I had little time for self-com- 
munings, for we had scarce been there two minutes before 
we heard the grating of hooves on the hill-gravel, and our 
two gentlemen came round the corner not twenty yards 
ahead. 

At the sight of us they reined up and stared stock still 
before them. Then I saw the hands of both reach to their 
belts, and I rejoiced at the movement, for I knew that the 
arms of neither were loaded. 

“ Gentlemen,” said I, “ it will be at your peril that you 
move. We have here two loaded pistols. We are not 
soldiers of His Majesty, so we have some skill in shooting. 
Let me assure you on my word that your case is a desperate 
one.” 

At my words the one still looked with a haughty, swagger¬ 
ing stare, but the jaw of the other dropped and he seemed 
like a man in excess of terror. 

“ To-day,” I went on, “ you shot at a lady not half an 
hour agone. It is for this that I have come to have speech 
with you. Let us understand one another, my friends. I 
am an outlawed man and one not easy to deal with. I am 
the Laird of Barns—ah, I see you know the name—and 
let this persuade you to offer no resistance.” 


HOW TWO SERVANTS MET THEIR DESERTS 187 


f 


One of the twain still stood helpless. The other’s hand 
twitched as if he would draw his sword or reach to his 
powder-flask, but the steely glitter of our barrels and my 
angry face deterred him. 

“ What do you want with us ? ” he said in a tone of 
mingled sulkiness and bravado. " Let me tell you, I am 
one of His Majesty’s dragoons, and you’ll pay well for any 
ill you do to me. I care not a fig for you, for all your gen- 
trice. If you would but lay down your pop-guns and stand 
before me man to man, I would give you all the satisfaction 
you want.” 

The fellow was a boor but he spoke like a man, and I 
liked him for his words. But I replied grimly: 

“ I will have none of your bragging. Go and try that 
in your own sty, you who shoot at women. I will give 
you as long as I may count a hundred, and if before that you 
have not stripped off every rag you have on and come for¬ 
ward to me here, by God I will shoot you down like the dogs 
you are.” 

And with this I began solemnly to count aloud. 

At first they were still rebellious, but fear of the death 
which glinted to them from the barrels of the pistols won the 
mastery. Slowly and with vast reluctance they began to 
disrobe themselves of belt and equipments, of coat and jack- 
boots, till they stood before me in the mild spring air as 
stark as the day they were born. Their faces were heavy 
with malice and shame. 

“ Now,” said I to Nicol, “ dismount and lay on to these 
fellows with the flat of your sword. Give me your pistol, 
and if either makes resistance he will know how a bullet 
tastes. Lay on, and do not spare them.” 

So Nicol, to whom the matter was a great jest, got down 
and laid on lustily. They shouted most piteously for 
mercy, but none they got till the stout arm of my servant 
was weary. 

“ And now, gentlemen, you may remount your horses. 
Nay, without your clothes ; you will ride more freely as you 
are. And give my best respects to your honourable friends, 
and tell them I wish a speedy meeting.” 


i88 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

But as I looked in the face of one, him who had been so 
terror-stricken at the outset, I saw that which I thought I 
recognized. 

“ You, fellow,” I cried," where have I seen you before ? ” 

And as I looked again, I remembered a night the year 
before on the Alphen road, when I had stood over this very 
man and questioned him on his name and doings. So he 
had come to Scotland as one of the foreign troops. 

“ I know you, Jan Hamman,” said I. “ The great doc¬ 
tor Johannes Burnetus of Lugdunum has not forgotten you. 
You were scarcely in an honest trade before, but you are in 
a vast deal less honest now. I vowed if ever I met you again 
to make you smart for your sins, and I think I have kept 
my word, though I had the discourtesy to forget your face 
at first sight. Good morning, Jan, I hope to see you again 
ere long. Good morning, gentlemen both.” 

So the luckless pair rode off homeward, and what recep¬ 
tion they met with from their captain and their comrades 
who shall say ? 

Meanwhile, when they were gone for some little time, 
Nicol and I rode back by a roundabout path. When I 
began to reflect, I saw the full rashness of my action. I 
had burned my boats behind me with a vengeance. There 
was no choice of courses before me now. The chase would 
be ten times hotter against me than before, and besides I 
had given them some clue to my whereabouts. You may 
well ask if the danger to my love were not equally great, for 
that by this action they would know at least the airt by 
which she had fled. I would answer that these men were 
of Gilbert’s own company, and one, at least, of them, when 
he heard my name, must have had a shrewd guess as to who 
the lady was. My cousin’s love affairs were no secret. If 
the man had revealed the tale in its entirety, his own action 
must necessarily have been exposed, and God help him 
who had insulted one whom Gilbert cared for. He would 
have flayed the skin from him at the very mention. 

To my sober reason to-day the action seems foolhardy 
In the extreme, and more like a boyish frolic than the work 


OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS 189 

of a man. But all I knew at the time, as I rode back, was 
that my pride was for the moment soothed, and my heart 
mightily comforted. 


CHAPTER VIII 

OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE 

If there had been haste before in our journey there was the 
more now, when in a few hours the countryside would be 
alive with our foes. I hurriedly considered in my mind the 
course of events. In three hours’ riding the soldiers, all 
stark as they were, would come to Abington, and in three 
more the road to Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozen 
companies. It was no light thing thus to have set the whole 
hell’s byke in Clydesdale buzzing about my ears. 

We were not long in reaching the cave. Here to my joy 
I found Marjory all recovered from her fright, and the 
wound hurting her no more than a pin’s scratch. When I 
spoke of immediate progress she listened gladly and was 
for setting out forthwith. I did not tell her of the soldiers* 
discomfiture, for I knew that she would fall to chiding me 
for my foolhardiness, and besides she would have more 
dismal fears for my future if she knew that I had thus in¬ 
censed the military against me. 

It was with much regret that I bade farewell to Master 
Lockhart and the old man ; nor would they let me go 
without a promise that if I found myself hard pressed at 
any time in the days to come I would take refuge with them. 
I was moved by the sight of the elder, who laying his hand 
on my lady’s head, stroked her fair golden hair gently and 
said, “ Puir lass, puir lass, ye’re no for the muirs. I foresee 
ill days coming for ye when ye’ll hae nae guid sword to pro¬ 
tect ye. But lippen weel to the Lord, my bairn, and He'll 
no forsake ye.” So amid the speaking of farewells and well- 
wishes we rode out into the green moors. 

How shall I tell of that morning ride ? I have seen very 
many days in April now, for I am a man ageing to middle life, 
but never have I seen one like that. The sky was one sheet 


igo JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

of the faintest blue, with delicate white clouds blown lightly 
athwart it. The air was so light that it scarce stirred the 
grass, so cool that it made our foreheads as crisp and free 
as on a frosty winter’s day, so mild that a man might have 
fancied himself still in the Lowlands. The place was very 
quiet save for a few sounds and these the most delectable 
on earth—the cries of sheep and the tender bleating of 
young lambs, the rise and fall of the stream, the croon of 
rock pigeons, and the sterner notes of curlew and plover. 
And the grass was short and lawn-like, stretching in wavy 
ridges to the stream, seamed with little rush-fringed rills 
and patched with fields of heath. Only when we gained the 
edge had we any view of country, and even then it was but 
circumscribed. Steep fronting hills, all scarred with 
ravines ; beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever into the 
distance, and below us the little glen which holds the head 
waters of Tweed. 

We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the water 
scarce reached above our horses’ pasterns. And now we 
struck up a burn called the Badlieu, at the foot of which was 
a herd’s shieling. The spirit of the spring seemed to have 
clean possessed Marjory, and I had never seen her so gay. 
All her past sorrows and present difficulties seemed forgotten, 
and a mad gaiety held her captive. She, who was for usual 
so demure, now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed 
bent on taking all the joys of the fair morning. She laughed, 
she sang snatches of old songs, and she leaped her horse 
lightly over the moss-trenches. She stooped to pluck some 
early white wind-flowers, and set some in her hair and some 
at her saddle-bow. 

“ Nay, John,” she cried, " if you and I must take to the 
hills let us do it with some gallantry. It is glorious to be 
abroad. I would give twelve months of sleepy peace at 
Dawyck for one hour of this life. I think this must be the 
Garden of Perpetual Youth in the fairy tale.” 

The same mad carelessness took hold on me also. Of a 
sudden my outlook on the world changed round to the 
opposite, and the black forebodings which had been ever 


OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS 191 

present to distress me, seemed to vanish like dew before the 
sun. Soon I was riding as gaily as she ; while Nicol, as he 
ran with great strides and unfaltering breath, he too became 
light-hearted, though to tell the truth care was not a com¬ 
modity often found with him. 

Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the 
Clyde glen from the Tweed and turned down the narrow 
ravine of the burn which I think they call Fopperbeck, 
and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it would have 
been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, 
low glen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by 
the village of Crawford. But this would have brought us 
perilously near the soldiers at Abington, and if once the 
pursuit had begun every mile of distance would be worth to 
us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real I could 
not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what 
fate God might send with a serene composure, begotten 
partly of my habitual rashness and partly of the intoxica¬ 
tion of the morn. 

We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little 
river Evan flows to Annan, and came to the wide moorlands 
which stretch about the upper streams of Clyde. Here we 
had a great prospect of landscape, and far as eye could see 
no living being but ourselves moved in these desolate wastes. 
Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale 
widens somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of 
Elvanfoot, a place soon to be much resorted to and briskly 
busy, since, forbye lying on the highway ’twixt Edinburgh 
and Dumfries, it is there that the bypath goes off leading 
to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills and 
Wanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside 
clachan of some few low huts, with fodder for neither man 
nor beast. 

As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an 
exceeding dangerous part of our journey. To the right lay 
Abington and the lower Clyde valley, where my sweet 
cousin and his men held goodly fellowship. Even now they 
would be buckling saddle-straps, and in two hours would be 


IQ2 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

in the places through which we were now passing. To the 
left was the long pass into Nithsdale, where half a score of 
gentlemen did their best to instil loyalty into the Whigs 
of the hills. I hated the land to that airt, for I had ever 
loathed the south and west countries, where there is 
naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of 
gen trice or letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had 
travelled and studied and mingled among men. I had no 
grudge against sheltering with the Tweedside rebels, who 
were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomach for Niths¬ 
dale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessity 
driven me there I vow I should never have ventured of my¬ 
self ; and as I rode I swore sometines that once I were free 
of my errand I would seek my refuge in my own country¬ 
side. 

And now we were climbing the long range which flanks 
the Portrail Water, which is the larger of the twin feeders 
of Clyde. Now we turned more to the north, and skirting 
the wild hills which frown around the pass of Enterkin, 
sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot 
call to mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, 
though they have all been told to me many a time and again. 
One little burn I remember called the Snar, which flowed 
very quietly and pleasantly in a deep, heathery glen. Here 
we halted and suffered our horses to graze, while we par¬ 
took of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water 
had sent with us. Now the way which we had come had 
brought us within seven miles of the dragoons’ quarters 
at Abington, for it was necessary to pass near them to get 
to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clue to 
our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must 
needs ride first to the Tweed valley. 

Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from 
some chance wandering soldier. But this danger was the 
less to be feared, since if Gilbert had any large portion of 
his men out on one errand he would be sure to set the rest 
to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had no love 
for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering and 


OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS 193 

being obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by 
the stream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a 
muirfowl which Nicol had picked up on the journey ; and 
which with the cheese and the cakes we had brought made 
a better meal than I might hope for for many days to come. 
We sat around the fire in the dry heather ’neath the genial 
sun, thanking God that we were still alive in the green world 
and with few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory 
was somewhat less cheerful than in the morning, partly 
from the fatigue of riding, which in these waste places is no 
light thing, and partly because anxiety for my safety and 
sorrow at our near parting were beginning to oppress her. 
For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for she was 
brave as a lion in the presence of what most women 
tremble at. But the loneliness of a great house and the 
never-appeased desire for knowledge of my safety were 
things which came nearer so rapidly that I did not wonder 
she lost her gaiety. 

" Oh, what will you do alone in these places? "she said. 
"If you had but one with you, I should be comforted. Will 
you not let Nicol accompany you ? " 

Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and 
twined her hands in her eagerness, it was hard to have to 
deny her. But I was resolved that my servant should 
abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings if 
aught evil threatened. 

"Nay, dear," I said, " that may not be. I cannot have 
you left with an old man who is helpless with age and a 
crew of hireling servants. I should have no heart to live 
in the moors if I had not some hope of your safety. Believe 
me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill of hill- 
craft is as good as any dragoon’s, and I have heard folk say 
that I am no ill hand with a sword. And I know the coun¬ 
tryside like the palm of my own hand, and friends are not 
few among these green glens. Trust me, no ill will come 
near me, and our meeting will be all the merrier for our 
parting." 

I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such 

G 


i 9 4 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

ease of mind. For my old cursed pride was coming back, 
and I was beginning to chafe against the beggarly trade of 
skulking among the moors when I had a fine heritage for 
my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thought 
of a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream 
of a philosophic life wherein all things should be ordered 
according to the dictates of reason, with the rough and ready 
times which awaited me, when my sword must keep my 
head, and my first thought must be of meat and lodging, 
and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuable 
than subtle speculation and lofty imagining. 

In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across 
the great moors of Crawfordjohn we passed, which is a place 
so lonely that the men in these parts have a proverb, “ Out 
of the world and into Crawfordjohn.” We still kept the 
uplands till we came to the springs of a burn called the 
Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier 
path had lain down by the side of this stream past the little 
town of Douglas. But in the town was a garrison of 
soldiers—small, to be sure, and feeble, but still there—who 
were used to harry the moors around Caimtable and Muir- 
kirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw the river 
winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking 
out of its grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, 
and the last miles of our journey were among darkening 
shadows. We had little fear of capture now, for we were 
on the lands of the castle, and Veitch of Smitwood was 
famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal 
gentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the 
stream at the ford, and silently rode up the long avenue 
to the dwelling. 


CHAPTER IX 

I PART FROM MARJORY 

" I’ve travelled far and seen many things, but, Gad, I never 
saw a stranger than this. My niece is driven out of house 


I PART FROM MARJORY 


195 


and home by an overbold lover, and you, Master Burnet 
come here and bid me take over the keeping of this fire¬ 
brand, which, it seems, is so obnoxious to His Majesty’s 
lieges.” 

So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling. He was a 
man of full eighty years of age, but still erect with a kind 
of soldierly bearing. He was thin and tall, and primly 
dressed in the fashion of an elder day. The frosty winter of 
age had come upon him, but in his ruddy cheek and clean-cut 
face one could see the signs of a hale and vigorous decline. 
He had greeted us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad 
to see Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many 
a day. We had fallen to supper with keen appetite, for 
the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger ; and now 
that we had finished we sat around the hall fire enjoying 
our few remaining hours of company together. For my¬ 
self I relished the good fare and the warmth, for Heaven 
knew when either would be mine again. The high oak- 
roofed chamber, hung with portraits of Veitches many, was 
ruddy with fire-light. Especially the picture in front of the 
chimney by Vandyke, of that Michael Veitch who died at 
Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike. Mas¬ 
ter Veitch looked often toward it ; then he took snuff with 
a great air of deliberation, and spoke in his high, kindly old 
voice. 

“ My brother seems well to-night, Marjory. I have not 
seen him look so cheerful for years.” (He had acquired 
during his solitary life the habit of talking to the picture as 
if it were some living thing.) " I can never forgive the 
Fleming for making Michael hold his blade in so awkward 
a fashion. Faith, he would have been little the swordsman 
he was, if he had ever handled sword like that. I can well 
remember when I was with him at Etzburg, how he engaged 
in a corner two Hollanders and a Swiss guard, and beat 
them back till I came up with him and took one off his 
hands.” 

“ I have heard of that exploit,” said I. " You must 
know that I have just come from the Low Countries, where 


196 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

the names of both of you are [still often on men’s lips.” 

The old man seemed well pleased. 

" Ah,” he said, “ so you have come from abroad. In 
what place did you bide, may I inquire ? ” 

“ In the town of Leyden,” said I, “ for my aim was no 
more than to acquire learning at the college there. But I 
foregathered with many excellent Scots gentlemen from 
whom I heard the talk of the camp and the state.” 

“ Say you so ? Then what do you here ? Did you 
return on the single errand of protecting my fair niece ? 
But stay ! I am an old man who cares not much for the 
chatter of the country, but I have heard—or am I wrong ? 
—that you were not of the true party, but leaned to the 
Whigs ? ” 

“ Nay,” I cried, " I beseech you not to believe it. God 
knows I am a king’s man out and out, and would see all 
whigamores in perdition before I would join with them. 
But fate has brought me into a strange mixture of mis¬ 
fortunes. I land at Leith, expecting nothing save a peace¬ 
ful homecoming, and lo ! I find my cousin waiting with a 
warrant for my arrest. I am accused of something I am 
wholly innocent of, but I cannot prove it ; nay, there is evi¬ 
dence against me, and my enemies in the Council are all- 
powerful. Moreover, if I suffer myself to be taken, Marjory 
is at the mercy of my foes. I take the only course ; give 
the dragoons the slip, and ride straight to Tweeddale, escort 
her to a house where she will be safe and unknown ; and 
when this is done take to the hills myself with a light heart. 
They are too ill-set against me for my setting any hope in 
going to Edinburgh and pleading my case. Was there any 
other way ? ” 

“ None,” said Master Veitch, “ but it is a hard case for 
yourself. Not the hiding among the moors ; this is a noble 
trade for any young man of spirit. But the consorting 
with the vile fanatics of these deserts must go sore against 
your heart.” 

Now I, who had just come from the folk of the Cor Water, 
had no such dread of the hillmen, but I forbore to say it. 


I PART FROM MARJORY 197 

For Master Veitch had been brought up in one school, those 
men in another. Both were blind to the other’s excellen¬ 
cies ; both were leal-hearted men in their own ways. It is 
a strange providence that has so ordered it that the best 
men in the world must ever remain apart through misunder¬ 
standing. 

“ But to come to my errand,” said I. " I have brought 
you your niece for protection. You are a king’s man, a 
soldier, and well known in the countryside. It is more 
than unlikely that any troops will come nigh you. Nor is 
it possible that the maid can be traced hither. I ask that 
you suffer her to abide in the house, while I take myself off 
that there be the less danger. And oh, I beseech you, do 
not refuse me. She is your own flesh and blood. You 
cannot deny her shelter.” 

The old man’s face darkened. “ You take me for a 
strange kinsman. Master Burnet,” he said, " if you think I 
would refuse my best aid to a kinswoman in distress. Do 
you think that you are the sole protector of my house ? ” 

I bowed before his deserved rebuke. 

“ But for certain, Marjory may abide here as long as she 
will,” he added cheerfully. “We will do our best to enter¬ 
tain her, though I am too old to remember well the likings 
of girls. And if any one comes seeking her on errand of no 
good, by God, he will learn that William Veitch has not lost 
the use of his arm.” 

“ May I ask,” said I, “ that my servant be allowed to 
stay ? He knows the hills as scarce any other living man, 
he is faithful, and clever as you would hardly believe were 
I to tell you. With him in the house I should have no fear 

for its safety.” 

“ So be it,” said the old man ; " I will not deny that my 
servants are not so numerous nor so active that another 
would not be something of an improvement. Has he any 
skill in cooking ? ” This he asked in a shamefaced tone, 
for old as he was he had not lost his relish for good fare. 

“ I will ask him,” said I, and I called Nicol from the 
servants’ quarters. 


198 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Your master gives me a good account of you,” said the 
cracked voice of the laird of Smitwood, " and I would fain 
hope it true. I wished to interrogate you about—ah, your 
powers—ah, of cooking pleasing dishes,” and he waved his 
hand deprecatingly. 

“ Oh, your honour, I am ready for a’ thing,” said Nicol. 
" Sheep’s heid, singit to a thocht, cockyleeky and a’ kind o’ 
soup, mutton in half a dozen different ways, no to speak o‘ 
sic trifles as confections. I can cook ye the flesh o’ the 
red deer and the troots f rae the bum, forbye haggis and brose, 
part an pies and rizzard haddies, crappit-heids and scate- 
rumples, nowt’s feet, kebbucks, ©cadlips, and skink. Then 
I can wark wi’ custocks and carlings, rifarts, and syboes, 
farles, fadges, and bannocks, drammock, brochan, and 
powsowdie.” 

“ That will do, you may go,” said the old man, rubbing 
his hands with glee. “ By my word, a genuine Scots gas¬ 
tronome, skilled in the ancient dishes of the land. I anti¬ 
cipate a pleasing time while he bides here.” 

It was long ere the worthy gentleman could get over his 
delight in the project of my servant’s presence. Even 
after he had gone he sat and chuckled to himself, for he 
was known among his friends to have a fine taste for dainties. 
Meantime, the light was dying out of doors, and more logs 
were laid on the fire, till it crackled and leaped like a live 
thing. I have ever loved the light of a wood fire, for there 
is no more heartsome thing on earth than its cheerful crackle 
when one comes in from shooting on the hills in the darken¬ 
ing of a winter’s day. Now I revelled in the comfort of it. 
since on the morrow I would have no other cheer than a 
flaming sunset. 

So we sat around the hearth and talked of many things 
till the evening was late. The old man fell to the memories 
of former folk, and told us tales of our forbears as would have 
made them turn in their graves could they have heard them. 
Of my house he had scarce a good word to speak, averring 
that they were all 'scape-the-gallows every one, but gallant 
fellows in their way. “ There was never a Burnet,” he 


199 


I PART FROM MARJORY 

cried, ff who would scruple to stick a man who doubted his 
word, or who would not ride a hundred miles to aid a friend. 
There were no lads like the Burnets in all the countryside 
for dicing and feasting and riding breakneck on the devil’s 
errand. But, Gad, if they were stubborn as bulls when they 
were down themselves, they were as tender as women to 
folk in trouble.” 

“ There’s one of their name like to be in trouble for many 
days to come,” said I. 

" Meaning yourself ? Well, it will do you no ill. There’s 
naught better for a young man than to find out how little 
the world cares whether he be dead or alive. And, above 
all, you that pretend to be a scholar, it will ding some of 
the fine-spun fancies out of your head. But for the Lord’s 
sake, laddie, dinna get a bullet in your skull or you’ll have 
me with all my years taking the field to pay back them that 
did it.” He spoke this so kindly that I was moved to forget 
the first half of his words through the excellency of the 
second. In truth I much needed the rough lessons of hard¬ 
ship and penury, for at that time I was much puffed up in 
a self-conceit and a certain pride of letters as foolish as 
it was baseless. 

“ I must be off in the morning before the dawning, for 
I have to be on the hills ere the soldiers get abroad. I must 
beg of you not to disturb yourself, Master Veitch, for my 
sake, but just to bid them make ready for me some provi¬ 
sions ; and I will slip off ere the household be awake. It is 
better to say farewell now than to have many sad leave- 
takings at the moment of departure. I have no fear of my 
journey, for my legs are as good as any man’s, and I can 
make my hands keep my head. Also, my mind is easy since 
I know that Marjory is safe here.” 

" Then I will even bid you good-bye, John,” said he, 
" for I am an old man and keep early hours. If you will 
follow me I will take you to your chamber. Alison will 
take you to the old room, Marjory, where you have not been 
since you were a little lass scarce up to my knee.” And with 
obvious intent he walked out. 


200 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

“ God keep you, John," my dear lass whispered on my 
shoulder. “ I will never cease to think of you. And oh, 
be not long in coming back." 

And this was the last I saw of my lady for many days. 

CHAPTER X 

OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE 
ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH 

I promise you I slept little that night, and it was with a 
heavy heart that I rose betimes and dressed in the chill of 
the morning. There was no one awake, and I left the house 
unobserved, whistling softly to keep up my spirits. 

Just without, some one came behind me and cried my 
name. I turned sharply round, and there was my servant 
Nicol, slinking after me for all the world like a collie dog 
which its master has left at home. 

“ What do you want with me ? " I cried. 

“ Naething," he groaned sadly. “ I just wantit to see 
ye afore ye gaed. I am awfu’ feared, sir, for you gaun awa' 
yoursel’. If it werena for Mistress Marjory, it wad be a 
deal mair than your word wad keep me frae your side. But 
I cam to see if there was nae way o' gettin’ word o’ ye. My 
leddy will soon turn dowie, gin she gets nae sough o' your 
whereabouts. Ye’d better tell me where I can get some 
kind o’ a letter." 

“Well minded ! ” I cried. “You know the cairn on the 
back side of Caerdon just above the rising of Kilbucho Bum. 
This day three weeks I will leave a letter for your mistress 
beneath the stones, which you must fetch and give her. 
And if I am safe and well every three weeks it will be the 
same. Good day to you, Nicol, and see you look well to the 
charge I have committed to you." 

“ Guid day to you, sir," he said, and I protest that the 
honest fellow had tears in his eyes ; and when I had gone 
on maybe half a mile and looked back, he was still standing 
like a stone in the same spot. 


OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE 201 


At first I was somewhat depressed in my mind. It is a 
hard thing thus to part from one's mistress when the air is 
thick with perils to both. So as I tramped through the 
meadows and leaped the brooks, it was with a sad heart, and 
my whole mind was taken up in conjuring back the pleasant 
hours I had spent in my lady’s company, the old frolics in 
the wood of Dawyck, the beginnings of our love-making, 
even the ride hither from the Cor Water. Yesterday, I re¬ 
flected, she was with me here ; now I am alone and like to 
be so for long. Then I fell to cursing myself for a fool, and 
went on my way with a better heart. 

But it was not till I had crossed the wide stream of the 
Douglas Water and begun to ascend the hills, that I wholly 
recovered my composure. Before, I had been straggling 
in low meadows which do not suit my temper, since I am 
above all things hill-bred and a lover of dark mountains. 
So now on the crisp spring grass of the slopes my spirits 
rose. Was not I young and strong and skilled in the 
accomplishments of a man ? The world was before me— 
that wide, undiscovered world which had always attracted 
the more heroic spirits. What hardship was there to live a 
free life among the hills, under the sunshine and the wind, 
the clouds and the blue sky ? 

But my delight could never be unmixed though I tried. 
After all, was I free ? I felt of a sudden that I was not 
one half equipped for a gipsy, adventurous life. I was tied 
down to custom and place with too many ties. I came of 
a line of landed gentlemen. The taint of possession, of 
mastery and lordship over men and land, was strong in me. 
I could not bring me to think of myself as a kinless and 
kithless vagabond, having no sure place of abode. Then 
my love of letters, my learning, my philosophy, bound me 
down with indissoluble bands. To have acquired a taste 
for such things was to have unfitted myself for ever for the 
life of careless vagabondage. Above all there was my love ; 
and ever, as I went on, my thoughts came home from their 
aerial flights and settled more and more in a little room in 
a house in a very little portion of God’s universe. And more 


202 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and more I felt myself a slave to beloved tyrants, and yet 
would not have been free if I could. 

It was always thus with me when alone : I must fall to 
moralizing and self-communing. Still perhaps the master 
feeling in my mind was one of curiosity and lightheartedness. 
So I whistled, as I went, all the old tunes of my boyhood 
which I was wont to whistle when I went out to the hills 
with my rod and gun, and stepped briskly over the short 
heather, and snapped my fingers in the face of the world. 

Now I dared not go back to Tweeddale by the way by 
which I had come, for the Clyde valley above Abington 
would be a hunting-ground of dragoons for many days. 
There was nothing for it but to make for the lower waters, 
ford the river above Coulter, and then come to Tweeddale 
in the lower parts, and thence make my way to the Water 
of Cor. Even this course was not without its dangers; 
for the lower glen of Tweed was around Dawyck and Barns, 
and this was the very part of all the land the most perilous 
to me at the moment. To add to this, I was well at home 
among the wilder hills ; but it was little I knew of Clydes¬ 
dale below Abington, till you come to the town of Lanark. 
This may at first seem a trifling misfortune, but in my pres¬ 
ent case it was a very great one. For unless a man knows 
every house and the character of its inmates he is like to be 
in an ill way if close and watched threatened. However, 
I dreaded this the less, and looked for my troubles mainly 
after I had once entered my own lands in Tweeddale. 

At the time when the sun rose I was on a long hill called 
Craigcraw, which hangs at the edge of the narrow crack 
in the hills through which goes the bridle-road from Lanark 
to Moffat. I thought it scarce worth my while to be wan¬ 
dering aimlessly among mosses and craigs when something 
very like a road lay beneath me ; so I made haste to get 
down and ease my limbs with the level way. It was but a 
narrow strip of grass, running across the darker heath, and 
coiling in front like a green ribbon through nick or scaur 
or along the broad brae-face. 

Soon I came to the small, roofless shieling of Redshaw, 


OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE 203 

where aforetime lived a villain of rare notoriety, with whose 
name, “ Redshaw Jock,” Jean Morran embittered my 
childhood. I thought of all these old pleasing days, as I 
passed the bare rickle of stones in the crook of the bum. 
Here I turned from the path, for I had no desire to go to 
Abington, and struck up a narrow howe in the hills, which 
from the direction I guessed must lead to the lower Clyde. 
It was a lonesome place as ever I have seen. The spring 
sunshine only made the utter desolation the more apparent 
and oppressive. Afar on the hillside, by a clump of rowan 
trees, I saw the herd’s house of Wildshaw, well named in 
its remote solitude. But soon I had come to the head of 
the burn and mounted the flat tableland, and in a little 
came to the decline on the other side, and entered the glen 
of the Roberton Burn. 

Here it was about the time of noon, and I halted to eat 
my midday meal. I know not whether it was the long walk 
and the rough scrambling, or the clean, fresh spring air, or 
the bright sunshine, or the clear tinkle of the burn at my 
feet, or the sense of freedom and adventurous romance, 
but I have rarely eaten a meal with such serene satisfaction. 
All this extraordinary day I had been alternating between 
excessive gaiety and sad regrets. Now the former element 
had the mastery, and I was as hilarious as a young horse 
when he is first led out to pasture. 

And after a little as I sat there my mirth grew into a sober 
joy. I remembered all the poets who had sung of the delight 
of the open air and the unshackled life. I laughed at my 
former feeling of shame in the matter. Was there any 
ignominy in being driven from the baseness of settled 
habitation to live like a prince under God’s sky ? And yet, 
as I exulted in the thought, I knew all too well that in a 
little my feelings would have changed and I would be in the 
depths of despondency. 

In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill and there 
before me lay the noble strath of Clyde. I am Tweedside 
born and will own no allegiance save to my own fair river, 
but I will grant that next to it there is none fairer than the 


204 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

upper Clyde. Were it not that in its lower course it flows 
through that weariful west country among the dull whiga- 
mores and Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as 
my own well-loved Tweed. There it lay, glittering in light, 
and yellow with that strange yellow glow that comes on 
April waters. The little scrubs of wood were scarce seen, 
the few houses were not in the picture ; nothing caught the 
eye save the giant mouldings of the hills, the severe barren 
vale, and the sinuous path of the stream. 

I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily through 
at one of the shallows. There was no one in sight, no 
smoke from any dwellings ; all was as still as if it were a 
valley of the dead. Only from the upper air the larks were 
singing, and the melancholy peewits cried ever over the 
lower moorlands. From this place my course was clear ; I 
went up the prattling Wandel Burn, from where it entered 
the river, and soon I was once more lost in the windings 
of the dark hills. There is a narrow bridle-path which 
follows the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to 
Abington, so the way was easier walking. 

And now I come to the relation of one of the strangest 
adventures of this time, which as often as I think upon it 
fills me with delight. For it was a ray of amusement in the 
perils and hardships of my wanderings. 

A mile or more up this stream, just before the path begins 
to leave the waterside and strike towards the highlands, 
there is a little green cleuch, very fair and mossy, where the 
hills on either side come close and the glen narrows down 
to half a hundred yards. When I came to this place I 
halted for maybe a minute to drink at a pool in the rocks, 
fori was weary with my long wanderings. 

A noise in front made me lift my head suddenly and stare 
before me. And there riding down the path to meet me 
was a man. His horse seemed to have come far, for it 
hung its head as if from weariness and stumbled often. He 
himself seemed to be looking all around him and humming 
some blithe tune. He was not yet aware of my presence, 
for he rode negligently, like one who fancies himself alone. 


OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE 205 


As he came nearer I marked him more clearly. He was a 
man of much my own height, with a shaven chin and a 
moustache on his upper lip. He carried no weapons save 
one long basket-handled sword at his belt. His face ap¬ 
peared to be a network of scars ; but the most noteworthy 
thing was that he had but one eye, which glowed bright 
from beneath bushy brows. Here, said I to myself, is a 
man of many battles. 

In a moment he caught my eye, and halted abruptly not 
six paces away. He looked at me quietly for some seconds, 
while his horse, which was a spavined, broken-winded 
animal at best, began to crop the grass. But if his mount 
was poor, his dress was of the richest and costliest, and much 
gold seemed to glisten from his person. 

“ Good day, sir,” said he very courteously. “ A fellow- 
traveller, I perceive.” By this time I had lost all doubt, 
for I saw that the man was no dragoon, but of gentle birth 
by his bearing. So I answered him rhadily. 

“ I little expected to meet any man in this deserted spot, 
least of all a mounted traveller. How did you come over 
these hills, which if I mind right are of the roughest ? ” 

“ Ah,” he said, “ my horse and I have done queer things 
before this,” and he fell to humming a fragment of a French 
song, while his eye wandered eagerly to my side. 

Suddenly he asked abruptly : “ Sir, do you know aught 
of sword-play ? ” 

I answered in the same fashion that I was skilled in the 
rudiments. 

He sprang from his horse in a trice and was coming 
towards me. 

“ Thank God,” he cried earnestly, “ thank God. Here 
have I been thirsting for days to feel a blade in my hands, 
and devil a gentleman have I met. I thank you a thousand 
times, sir, for your kindness. I beseech you to draw.” 

“ But,” I stammered, “ I have no quarrel with you.” 

He looked very grieved. “ True, if you put it in that way. 
But that is naught between gentlemen, who love ever to be 
testing each other’s prowess. You will not deny me ? ” 


206 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Nay,” I said, “ I will not,” for I began to see his mean¬ 
ing, a*id I stripped to my shirt and, taking up my sword, 
confronted him. 

So there in that quiet cleuch we set to with might and 
main, with vast rivalry but with no malice. We were far 
too skilled to butcher one another like common rufflers. 
Blow was given and met, point was taken and parried, all 
with much loving kindness. But I had not been two min¬ 
utes at the work when I found I was in the hands of a 
master. The great conceit of my play which I have always 
had ebbed away little by little. The man before me was 
fencing easily with no display, but every cut came near to 
breaking my guard, and every thrust to overcoming my 
defence. His incomprehensible right eye twinkled merrily, 
and discomposed my mind, and gave me no chance of read¬ 
ing his intentions. It is needless to say more. The con¬ 
test lasted scarce eight minutes. Then I made a head-cut 
which he guarded skilfully, and when on the return my 
blade hung more loose in my hand he smote so surely and 
well that, being struck near the hilt, it flew from my hand 
and fell in the burn. 

He flung down his weapon and shook me warmly by the 
hand. 

“ Ah, now I feel better,” said he. “ I need something of 
this sort every little while to put me in a good humour with 
the world. And, sir, let me compliment you on your ap¬ 
pearance. Most admirable, most creditable ! But oh, am 
I not a master in the craft ? ” 

So with friendly adieux we parted. We had never asked 
each other’s name and knew naught of each other’s con¬ 
dition, but that single good-natured contest had made us 
friends ; and if ever I see that one-eyed man again in life 
I shall embrace him like a brother. For myself, at that 
moment, I felt on terms of good-comradeship with all, and 
pursued my way in a settled cheerfulness. 


A MILLER AND HIS MILL-WHEEL 207 


CHAPTER XI 

HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL 

I lay that night on the bare moors, with no company save 
the birds, and no covering save a dry bush of heather. The 
stars twinkled a myriad miles away, and the night airs blew 
soft, and I woke in the morning as fresh as if I had lain be¬ 
neath the finest coverlet on the best of linen. Near me was 
a great pool in a burn, and there I bathed, splashing to my 
heart’s content in the cold water. Then I ate my breakfast, 
which was no better than the remnants of the food I had 
brought away with me the day before from Smitwood ; but I 
gulped it down heartily and hoped for something better. 
There will be so much complaining, I fear, in my tale ere 
it is done, that I think it well to put down all my praise of 
the place and the hours which passed pleasingly. 

By this time I was on a little plateau, near the great 
black hill of Coomb Dod, a place whence three streams 
flow—the Camps Water and the Coulter Water to the Clyde, 
and the burn of Kingledoors to Tweed. Now here had I 
been wise I should at once have gone down the last-named 
to the upper waters of Tweed near the village of Tweeds- 
muir, whence I might have come without danger to the 
wilder hills and the Cor Water hiding-place. But as I 
stayed there desire came violently upon me to go down to 
the fair green haughlands about the Holmes Water, which 
is a stream which rises not far off the Kingledoors burn, 
but which flows more to the north and enters Tweed in the 
strath of Drummelzier not above a few miles from Bams 
itself and almost at the door of Dawyck. There I knew was 
the greater danger, because it lay on the straight line be¬ 
tween Abington and Peebles, a way my cousin Gilbert 
travelled often in those days. But I was not disposed at 
that moment to think of gradations of danger ; and indeed, 
after my encounter on the previous afternoon, I was in a 
haphazard, roystering mood, and would have asked for 


208 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

nothing better than a chance of making holes in my cousin or 
his company. 

Now in Holmes Water glen there dwelled many who 
would receive me gladly and give me shelter and food if I 
sought it. There were the Tweedies of Quarter and Glen- 
cotho, kin to myself on the mother’s side, not to speak of a 
score of herds whom I had dealings with. But my upper¬ 
most reason was to see once more that lovely vale, the 
fairest, unless it be the Manor, in all the world. It is scarce 
six miles long, wide at the bottom and set with trees and 
rich with meadows and cornland, but narrowing above to 
a long, sinuous green cleft between steep hills. And 
through it flows the clearest water on earth, wherein dwell 
the best trout—or did dwell, for, as I write, I have not 
angled in it for many days. I know not how I can tell of 
the Holmes Water. It tumbles clear and tremulous into 
dark brown pools. In the shallows it is like sunlight, in 
the falls like virgin snow. And over all the place hangs a 
feeling of pastoral quiet and old romance, such as I never 
knew elsewhere. 

Midday found me in the nick of the hill above Glencotho 
debating on my after course. I had it in my mind to go 
boldly in and demand aid from my kinsman. But I re¬ 
flected that matters were not over-pleasant between us at 
the time. My father had mortally offended him on some 
occasion (it would be hard to name the Tweedside gentle¬ 
man whom my father had not mortally angered), and I 
could scarce remember having heard that the quarrel had 
been made up. I knew that in any case if I entered they 
would receive me well for the honour of the name ; but I 
am proud, and like little to go to a place where I am not 
heartily welcome. So I resolved to go to Francie Smails, 
the herd’s, and from him get direction and provender. 

The hut was built in a little turn of the water beneath a 
high bank. I knocked at the door, not knowing whether 
some soldier might not come to it, for the dragoons were 
quartered everywhere. But no one came save Francie 
himself, a great, godly man who lived alone, and cared not 


A MILLER AND HIS MILL-WHEEL 209 

for priest or woman. He cried aloud when he saw me. 

" Come in by,” he says, " come in quick ; this is nae 
safe place the noo.” 

And he pulled me in to the hearth, where his midday meal 
was standing. With great goodwill he bade me share it, 
and afterward, since he had heard already of my case and 
had no need for enlightenment thereon, he gave me his good 
counsel. 

"Ye maunna bide a meenute here,” he said. " I'll pit 
up some cauld braxy and bread for ye, for it’s a’ I have at 
this time o’ year. Ye maun get oot o’ the glen and aff to the 
hills wi’ a’ your pith, for some o’ Maister Gilbert's men 
passed this mom on their way to Barns, and they’ll be 
coming back afore nicht. So ye maun be aff, and I counsel 
ye to tak the taps o’ the Wormel and syne cross the water 
abune the Crook, and gang ower by Talla and Fruid to the 
Cor. Keep awa’ frae the Clyde hills for ony sake, for they're 
lookit like my ain hill’ i’ the lambin' time ; and though it's 
maybe safer there for ye the noo, in a wee it’ll be het eneuch. 
But what are ye gaun to dae ? Ye’ll be makkin’ a try to 
win ower the sea, for ye canna skip aboot on thae hills like 
a paitrick for ever.” 

" I do not know,” said I; " I have little liking for another 
sea journey, unless all else is hopeless. I will bide in the 
hills as long as I can, and I cannot think that the need will 
be long. For I have an inkling, and others beside me, that 
queer things will soon happen.” 

" Guid send they dae,” said he, and I bade him good-bye. 
I watched him striding off to the hill, and marvelled at the 
life he led. Living from one year’s end to another on the 
barest fare, toiling hard on the barren steeps for a little 
wage, and withal searching his heart on his long rounds by 
the canon of the book of God. A strange life and a hard, 
yet no man knows what peace may come out of loneliness. 

Now had I taken his advice I should have been saved 
one of the most vexatious and hazardous episodes of my 
life. But I was ever self-willed, and so, my mind being 
set on going down the Holmes vale, I thought nothing of 


210 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

going near the Wormel, but set off down the bridle way, 
as if I were a king’s privy councillor and not a branded 
exile. 

I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to appear 
and the roofs of the little clachan. Then I struck higher 
up on the hillside and kept well in the shade of a little cloud 
of birk trees which lay along the edge of the slope. It was 
a glorious sunny day, such as I scarce ever saw surpassed, 
though I have seen many weathers under many skies. The 
air was as still and cool as the first breath of morning, though 
now it was mid-afternoon. All the nearer hills stood out 
clear-lined and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; 
sheep bleated from the meadow ; and around the place hung 
the low rustle of the life of the woods. 

Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water near 
the house called Holmes Mill. There dwelt my very good 
friend the miller, a man blessed with as choice a taste in 
dogs as ever I have seen, and a great Whig to boot—both 
of which tricks he learned from a Westland grandfather. 
Lockhart was his name, and his folk came from the Lee 
near the town of Lanark to this green Tweedside vale. 
From the steading came the sound of life. There was a 
great rush of water out of the dam. Clearly the miller was 
preparing for his afternoon’s labours. The wish took me 
strongly to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome 
smell of grinding com, and above all to taste his cakes, 
which I had loved of old. So without thinking more of it, 
and in utter contempt for the shepherd’s warning, I scram¬ 
bled down, forded the water, and made my way to the 
house. 

Clearly something was going on at the mill, and whatever 
it was there was a great to-do. Sounds of voices came 
clear to me from the mill-door, and the rush of water sang 
ever in my ears. The miller has summoned his family to 
help him, thought I : probably it is the lifting of the bags 
to the mill-loft. 

But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a mere 
chatter of friendly tongues, but some serious matter. There 


A MILLER AND HIS MILL-WHEEL 211 


was a jangling note, a sound as of a quarrel and an appeal. 

I judged it wise therefore to keep well in the shadow of the 
wall and to go through the byre and up to the loft by an 
old way which I remembered—a place where one could see 
all that passed without being seen of any. 

And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me. Some 
four soldiers with unstrung muskets stood in the court, 
while their horses were tethered to a post. Two held the 
unhappy miller in their stout grip, and at the back his 
wife and children were standing in sore grief. I looked 
keenly at the troopers, and as I looked I remembered all too 
late the shepherd's words. They were part of my cousin's 
company, and one I recognized as my old friend Jan Ham- 
man of the Alphen Road and the Cor Water. 

The foremost of the soldiers was speaking. 

“ Whig though you be," said he, " you shall hae a chance 
of life. You look a man o’ muscle. I’ll tell you what I'll 
dae. Turn on the sluice and set the mill-wheel gaun, and 
then haud on to it; and if you can keep it back, your life 
you shall hae, as sure as my name’s Tam Gordon. But gin 
you let it gang, there’ll be four bullets in you afore you’re an 
hour aulder, and a speedy meeting wi’ your Maker. Do 
you wish to mak the trial ? " 

Now the task was hopeless from the commencement, for 
big though a man be, and the miller was as broad and high a 
man as one may see in Tweeddale, he has no chance against a 
mill-race. But whether he thought the thing possible or 
whether he wanted to gain a few minutes’ respite from 
death, the man accepted and took off his coat to the task. 
He opened the sluice and went forward to the wheel. 

Soon the water broke over with a rush and the miller 
gripped a spoke like grim death. For a moment the thing 
was easy, for it takes some minutes for the water to gather 
body and force. But in a little it became harder, and the 
sinews on his bare arms began to swell with the strain. But 
still he held on valiantly and the wheel moved never an inch. 
Soon the sweat began to run over his face, and the spray 
from the resisted water bespattered him plentifully. Then 


212 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

the strain became terrible. His face grew livid as the blood 
surged to his head, his eyeballs stood out, and his arms 
seemed like to be torn from their sockets. The soldiers, 
with the spirit of cruel children, had forgot their weapons, 
and crowded round the wheel to see the sport. 

I saw clearly that he could not hold out much longer, and 
that unless I wanted to see a friend butchered before my 
eyes I had better be up and doing. We were two resolute 
men : I armed and with considerable skill of the sword, he 
unarmed, but with the strength of a bull. The most dan¬ 
gerous things about our opponents were their weapons. 
Could I but get between them and their muskets we could 
make a fight for it yet. 

Suddenly as I looked the man failed. With a sob of 
weariness he loosed his hold. The great wheel caught the 
stream and moved slowly round, and he almost fell along 
with it. His tormentors laughed cruelly, and were about 
to seize him and turn back, when I leaped from the loft 
window like some bolt from a clear sky. 

My head was in a whirl and I had no thought of any plan. 
I only knew that I must make the venture at any cost, or 
else be branded in my soul as a coward till my dying day. 

I fell and scrambled to my feet. 

" Lockhart,” I cried, " here man, here. Run.” 

He had the sense to see my meaning. Exhausted though 
he was, he broke from his astonished captors, and in a 
moment was beside me and the weapons. 

As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our salvation 
lay. 

" Take these two,” I said, pointing to the muskets. " I 
will take the others.” 

I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers. " Now, 
gentlemen,” said I, “ once more the fortune of war has 
delivered you into my hands. We, as you perceive, com¬ 
mand the weapons. I beg your permission to tell you that 
I am by no means a poor shot with the musket, and likewise 
that I do not stick at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend 
Master Hamman will tell you.” 


A MILLER AND HIS MILL-WHEEL 


213 


The men were struck dumb with surprise to find them¬ 
selves thus taken at a disadvantage. They whispered for 
a little among themselves. Doubtless the terrors of my 
prowess had been so magnified by the victims in the last 
escapade to cover their shame that I was regarded as a 
veritable Hector. 

" Are you the Laird of Barns ? ” said the leader aflast, 
very politely. I bowed. 

“ Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane sae fond 
o’ the Captain, your cousin," said he, thinking to soothe me. 

" So much the worse for my cousin," said I. 

" Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free." 

“ I am obliged," said I, “ but my cousin is my cousin, 
and I tolerate no rebellion toward one so near of blood. I 
am therefore justified, gentlemen, in using your own arms 
against you, since I have always believed that traitors were 
shot." 

At this they looked very glum. At last one of them 
spoke up—for after all they were men. 

" If ye’ll tak the pick o’ ony yin o’ us and stand up to 
him wi’ the sma’-sword, we’ll agree to bide by the result." 

“ I thank you," I said, “ but I am not in the mood for 
sword exercise. However, I shall be merciful, though that 
is a quality you have shown little of. You shall have your 
horses to ride home on, but your arms you shall leave with 
me as a pledge of your good conduct. Strip, gentlemen." 

And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and sword. 
Then I bade them go, not without sundry compliments as 
one by one they passed by me. There were but four of 
them, and we had all the arms, so the contest was scarcely 
equal. Indeed my heart smote me more than once that I 
had not accepted the fellow’s offer to fight. The leader 
spoke up boldly to my face. 

“ You’ve gotten the better o’ us the noo, but it’ll no be 
long afore you're gettin’ your kail through the reek, Master 
John Burnet." 

At which I laughed and said ’twas a truth I could not 

deny. 


214 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 


CHAPTER XII 

I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING 

They had scarce been five minutes gone when the full folly 
of my action dawned upon me. To be sure I had saved 
the miller from death, but I had now put my own neck in 
the noose. I had given them a clue to my whereabouts : 
more, I had brought the hunt down on lower Tweeddale, 
which before had been left all but unmolested. It was war 
to the knife. I could look for no quarter, and my only 
chance lay in outstripping my pursuers. The dragoons 
dared not return immediately, for four unarmed soldiers 
would scarcely face two resolute men, fully armed and 
strongly posted. They could only ride to Abington, and 
bring the whole hornet’s nest down on my head. 

Another reflection had been given to me by the sight of 
these men. In all likelihood Gilbert had now returned and 
resumed the chief command of the troop, for otherwise 
there would have been no meaning in the journey to Dawyck 
and lower Tweeddale which these fellows had taken. And 
now that my dear cousin had come back I might look for 
action. There was now no more any question of foolish 
and sluggish soldiery to elude, but a man of experience and, 
as I well knew, of unmatched subtlety. 

The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my 
timely succour, but I cut him short. " There is no time,” 
said I, “ for long thanks. You must take to the hills, and 
if you follow my advice you will hold over to the westlands 
where your friends are, and so keep the pursuit from Tweed¬ 
dale, which little deserves it. As for myself, I will go up 
the Wormel, and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening. 
For the hills are too bare and the light too clear to travel 
by day. To be kenspeckle in these times is a doubtful 
advantage.” 

So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the fields 
with great caution, and going up a little glen in the side of 


I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING 


215 


the big hill, found a very secure hiding-place in the lee of a 
craig among a tangle of hazel bushes. I had taken some 
food with me from the mill to provision me during my night 
journey, and now I used a little of it for my afternoon meal. 
In this place I lay all the pleasant hours after midday till I 
saw the shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting 
over the back of Caerdon. Then the cool spring darkness 
came down on the earth, and I rose and shook myself and 
set out on my way. 

I shall ever remember that long night walk over hill and 
dale to the Cor Water for many reasons. First, from the 
exceeding beauty of the night, which was sharp and yet not 
cold, with a sky glittering with stars, and thin rails of mist 
on the uplands. Second, from the exceeding roughness oi 
the way, which at this season of the year makes the hills 
hard for walking on. The frost and snow loosen the rocks 
and there are wide stretches of loose shingle, which is an 
accursed thing to pass over. Third, and above all, for the 
utter fatigue into which I fell just past the crossing of Talla. 
The way was over the Wormel and the Logan Bum hills 
as far as Kingledoors. There I forded Tweed and struck 
over the low ridge to Talla Water. Thence the way was 
straight, and much the same as that which I had come with 
Marjory. But now I had no such dear escort, and I give 
my word that my limbs ached and my head swam often¬ 
times ere I reached my journey’s end. 

It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and 
entered the Cor Water valley. There was no sign of life in 
that quiet green glen, a thing that seemed eerie when one 
thought that somewhere in the hill in front men were dwell¬ 
ing. I found that short as had been my absence I had 
almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not 
without difficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in 
the slate-grey rock, and entered. 

In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with 
astonishment, since at five o’clock on a good spring day 
folk should be stirring. But all was still, and it was not till 
I had come into the second chamber, which, as I have told. 


2l6 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

was the largest in the place, that there were any signs of 
life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrow 
crevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The 
faint struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by 
its aid I made out the old man who had spoken with me 
on that first night of my journey. 

He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way 
with the blind, but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly 
to his feet. One could see that the natural acuteness of 
his hearing was little impaired by years. I paused at the 
threshold and he stood listening ; then he sank back in his 
seat as if convinced it was no enemy. 

" Come in, John Burnet," he said, " I ken you well. 
How have you fared since you left us ? I trust you have 
placed the maid in safe keeping." 

I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of per¬ 
ception which they possess who have lost some other 
faculty ; but I have never yet had illustration of it. So 
I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that all as yet was 
well, and that my lady was in good hands. 

“ It is well," said he ; " and, Master Burnet, I fear you 
have come back to a desolate lodging. As ye see, all are 
gone and only I am left. Yestreen word came that that 
had happened which we had long expected. There was 
once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He 
has proved the traitor and there is no more safety here. 
They scattered last night, the puir feckless folk, to do for 
themselves among the moors and mosses, and I am left 
here to wait for the coming of the enemy." 

“ Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, “ that you 
would cast it away thus ? I dare not suffer you to bide 
here. I would be a coward indeed if I did not take care of 
you." 

A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his worn 
face. But he spoke gravely. “ No, you are too young and 
proud and hot in blood. You think that a strong arm and 
a stout heart can do all. But I have a work to do in which 
none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I would use 


I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING 


217 


it for the best. But you, too, axe in danger here ; the 
soldiers may come at any moment. If you go far to the 
back you’ll find a narrow way up which you can crawl. It’ll 
bring ye out on the back side of the hill. Keep it well in 
mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down, 
and give us your crack. There’s a heap o’ things I want to 
speir at ye. And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood ? 
I once kenned him well, when he was young, ’prising lad; 
but now I hear he’s sair fallen in years and gien ower to 
the pleasures of eating and drinking.” 

I told him all of the Laird of Smitwood that I could 
remember. 

“ It would be bonny on the muirs o’ Clyde in this weather. 
I havena been out o’ doors for mony a day, but I would like 
fine to feel the hill-wind and the sun on my cheek. I was 
aye used wi’ the open air,” and his voice had a note of 
sorrow. 

To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of 
the most deadly danger this man should be so easy and 
undisturbed. I confess that I myself had many misgivings 
and something almost approaching fear. There was no 
possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of 
the cave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on 
the bare hillside. This, of course, was what the old man 
meant when he bade me stay and refused to go out of doors. 
It was more than I could do to leave him, but yet I ever 
feared the very thought of dying like a rat in a hole. My 
forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windy 
place, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark 
before me. It was with downcast eyes that I waited for 
the inevitable end, striving to commend my soul to God and 
repent of my past follies. 

Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old 
man, and he stood up quivering. 

“ John,” he cried, “ John, my lad, gang to the place I 
told ye. Ye’ll find the hole where I said it was, and once 
there ye needna fear.” 

’Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear. 


218 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and he had little cause to speak of it. " Nay/' I said 
haughtily, “ I will not move from your side. It were a 
dastardly thing to leave you, and the two of us together 
may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is as 
much chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a 
man can be seen for miles.” 

He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried 
out for pain, and his voice came shrill and strange. “ Gang 
where I tell ye, ye puir fool. Is this a time for sinfu* pride 
o’ honour or mettle ? Ye know not what evil is coming 
upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also.” 

Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and 
I turned to obey him. 

As I went he laid his hand on my head. “The blessing 
o’ man availeth little, but I pray God that He be ever 
near you and your house, and that ye may soon hae a happy 
deliverance from all your afflictions. God bless and keep ye 
ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place.” 

With a heart beating wildly between excitement and 
sorrow I found the narrow crevice, and crept upward till I 
came to the turning which led to the air. Here I might 
have safely hid for long, and I was just on the point of going 
back to the old man and forcing him to come with me to the 
same place of refuge, when I heard the sound of men. 

From my vantage-ground I could see the whole cave 
clearly and well. I could hear the noise of soldiers fumbling 
about the entrance, and the voice of the informer telling the 
way. I could hear the feet stumbling along the passage, 
the clink of weapons, and the muttered words of annoyance ; 
and then, as I peered warily forth, I saw the band file into 
the cave where sat the old man alone. It was as I expected: 
they were some twenty men of my cousin’s company, 
strangers to me for the most; but what most occupied my 
thoughts was that Gilbert was not with them. 

“ By God, they’re off,” said the foremost, " and nothing 
left but this auld dotterel. This is a puir haul. Look you 
here, you fellow,” turning to the guide, “ you are a liar and 
a scoundrel, and if your thick hide doesna taste the flat o’ 


I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING 


219 


my sword ere you’re five hours aulder, my name’s no Peter 
Moriston. You,” this to the old man, “ what’s your name, 
brother well-beloved in the Lord ? ” 

At their first coming he had risen to his feet and taken his 
stand in the middle of the cave, by the two great stone 
shafts which kept up the roof, for all the world like the pillars 
in some mighty temple. There he stood looking over their 
heads at something beyond, with a strange, almost pitying 
smile, which grew by degrees into a frown of anger. 

“ Ye’ve come here to taunt me,” said he, “ but the Lord 
has prepared for you a speedy visitation. Puir fools, ye 
shall go down quick to the bottomless pit like Korah, 
Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall be left to tell the tale 
of you. Ye have led braw lives. Ye have robbed the 
widow and the fatherless, ye have slain by your numbers 
men ye darena have come near singly, ye have been the 
devil’s own braw servants, and, lads, ye’ll very soon get 
your wages. Ye have made thae bonny lands o’ Tweed- 
side fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness. And ye think 
that there is nae jealous God in Heaven watching ower 
you and your doings and biding His time to repay. But, 
lads, ye’re wrang for yince. The men ye thocht to take 
are by this time far from ye, and there is only one left, an 
auld feckless man, that will no bring muckle credit to ye. 
But God has ordained that ye shall never leave here, but 
mix your banes to a’ time wi’ the hillside stanes. God hae 
pity on your souls, ye that had nae pity on others in your 
lives.” 

And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and awful. 
Stretching out his great arms, he caught the two stone shafts 
and with one mighty effort pushed them asunder. I held 
my breath with horror. With a roar like a world falling 
the roof came down, and the great hillside sank among a 
ruin of rock. I was blinded by dust even in my secure seat, 
and driven half-mad with terror and grief. I know not 
how I got to the air, but by God’s good providence the pas¬ 
sage where I lay was distinct from the cave, and a rift in 
the solid rock. As it was, I had to fight with falling splin- 


220 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

ters and choking dust all the way. At last—and it seemed 
ages—I felt free air and a glimmer of light, and with one 
fresh effort crawled out beneath a tuft of bracken. 

And this is why at this day there is no cave at the Cor 
Water, nothing but the bare side of a hill strewn with 
stones. 

When I gained breath to raise myself and look around, 
the sight was strange indeed. The vast cloud of dust was 
beginning to settle and the whole desolation lay clear. I 
know not how to tell of it. It was like some battlefield of 
giants of old time. Great rocks lay scattered amid the 
beds of earth and shingle, and high up toward the brow of 
the hill one single bald scarp showed where the fall had 
begun. 

A hundred yards away, by his horse’s side, gazing with 
wild eyes at the scene, stood a dragoon, doubtless the one 
whom the ill-fated company had set for guard. I hastened 
toward him as fast as my weak knees would carry me, and 
I saw without surprise that he was the Dutchman, Jan 
Hamman, whom I had already met thrice before. He scarce 
was aware of my presence, but stood weeping with weak¬ 
ness and terror, and whimpering like a child. I took him by 
the shoulder and shook him, until at last I had brought 
him back to his senses, and he knew me. 

“ Where are they gone ? ” and he pointed feebly with his 
finger to the downfall. 

“To their own place,” I said shortly. “ But tell me one 
word. Where is your captain, Gilbert Burnet, that he is 
not with you to-day ? ” 

The man looked at me curiously. 

“He is gone on another errand, down Tweed toward 
Peebles.” 

Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and low 
and would never rest till he found her. 

“ I will let you go,” said I to the man, “ that you may 
carry the tidings to the rest. Begone with you quick. I 
am in no mood to look on such as you this day.” 

The man turned and was riding off, when he stopped for 




I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 221 


one word. " You think,” he said, " that I am your enemy 
and your cousin’s friend, and that I serve under the captain 
for his own sweet sake. I will tell you my tale. Three 
years ago this Captain Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, and 
there also was I, a happy, reputable man, prosperous and 
contented, with the prettiest sweetheart in all the town. 
Then came this man. I need not tell what he did. In a 
year he had won over the silly girl to his own desires, and I 
was a ruined man for evermore. I am a servant in his 
company who worked my fall. Remember then that the 
nearer I am to Gilbert Burnet the worse it will fare with 
him.” And he rode off, still pale and shivering with terror. 

I mused for some time with myself. Truly, thought I, 
Gilbert has his own troubles, and it will go hard with him 
if his own men turn against him. And I set it down in my 
mind that I would do my best to warn him of the schemes 
of the foreigner. For though it was my cousin’s own ill- 
doing that had brought him to this, and my heart burned 
against him for his villainy, it was yet right that a kins¬ 
man should protect one of the house against the plots of a 
common soldier. 


CHAPTER XIII 

I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 

This was in April, and now the summer began to grow over 
the land. The days grew longer and the air more mild, the 
flowers came out on the hills, little mountain pansies and 
eyebright and whortleberry, and the first early bells of the 
heath; the birds reared their young and the air was all 
filled with the cries of them ; and in the streams the trout 
grew full-fleshed and strong. 

And all through these days I lay close hid in the wilds, 
now in one place, now in another, never wandering far from 
Tweeddale. My first hiding was in a narrow glen at the 
head of the Polmood Burn in a place called Glenhurn. It 
was dark and lonesome, but at first the pursuit was hot 


222 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

after me and I had no choice in the matter. I lived ill on 
the fish of the burn and the eggs of wildfowl, with what 
meal I got from a shepherd’s house at the burnfoot. These 
were days of great contemplation, of long hours spent on 
my back in the little glen of heather, looking up to the 
summer sky and watching the great clouds fleeting athwart 
it. No sound came to disturb me, I had few cares to vex 
me ; it was like that highest state of being which Plotinus 
spoke of, when one is cumbered not with the toils of living. 
Here I had much grave communing with myself on the 
course of my life, now thinking upon it with approval, now 
much concerned at its futility. I had three very warring 
moods of mind. One was that of the scholar, who would 
flee from the roughness of life. This came upon me when 
I thought of the degradation of living thus in hiding, of 
sorting with unlettered men, of having no thoughts above 
keeping body and soul together. The second was that of 
my father’s son, whose pride abhorred to flee before any 
man and hide in waste places from low-born soldiers and 
suffer others to devour my patrimony. But the third was 
the best, and that which I ever sought to keep with me. It 
was that of the gentleman and cavalier who had a wide, 
good-humoured outlook upon the world, who cared not for 
houses and lands, but sought above all things to guard 
his honour and love. When this was on me I laughed loud 
at all my misfortunes, and felt brave to meet whatever 
might come with a light heart. 

In this place I abode till near the middle of the month of 
June. Twice I had gone to the cairn on Caerdon and left 
a letter, which I wrote with vast difficulty on fragments of 
paper which I had brought with me, and received in turn 
Marjory’s news. She was well and in cheerful spirits, 
though always longing for my return. The days passed 
easily in Smitwood, and as none came there she was the 
better hidden. I wrote my answers to these letters with 
great delight of mind, albeit much hardship. The ink in 
the inkhorn which I had always carried with me soon be¬ 
came dry, and my pen, which I shaped from a curlew’s 


I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 223 

feather, was never of the best. Then after the writing came 
the long journey, crouching in thickets, creeping timorously 
across the open spaces, running for dear life down the hill- 
slopes, until I came at length to the cairn on Caerdon, and 
hid the letter 'neath the grey stones. 

But about mid June I bethought me that I had stayed 
long enough in that lonely place and resolved to move my 
camp. For one thing I wished to get nearer Barns, that I 
might be within reach of my house for such provisions as I 
required. Also there were signs that the place was no 
longer safe. Several times of late I had heard the voice of 
soldiers on the moors above my hiding, and at any moment 
a chance dragoon might stray down the ravine. So late one 
evening about midsummer I bade adieu to the dark Glen- 
hum, and took off across the wild hills to the lower vale of 
Tweed. 

The place I chose was just at the back of Scrape, between 
that mountain and a wild height called the Pyke-stone hill. 
It was a stretch of moss-hags and rough heather, dry as 
tinder at this time, but, as I well knew, in late autumn and 
winter a treacherous flow. Thither I had been wont to go 
to the duck-shooting in the months of November and Feb¬ 
ruary, when great flocks of mallard and teal settled among 
the pools. Then one has to look well to his feet, for if he 
press on eager and unthinking, he is like to find himself up 
to the armpits. But if he know the way of the thing, and 
walk only on the tufted rushes and strips of black peat, he 
may take the finest sport that I know of. Here then I 
came, for the place was high and lonesome, and with a few 
paces I could come to the top of the Little Scrape and see 
the whole vale of Tweed from Drummelzier to Neidpath. I 
had the less fear of capture, for the place was almost im¬ 
passable for horses ; also it was too near the house of Barns 
to be directly suspected, and the country below it was still 
loyal and with no taint of whiggery. 

Here then I settled myself, and made a comfortable 
abode in a dry bum-channel, overarched with long heather. 
The weather was unusually warm and dry, the streams 


224 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

were worn to a narrow thread of silver trickling among grey 
stones, and the hot sun blazed from mom to night in a cloud¬ 
less sky. The life, on the whole, was very pleasing. There 
was cold water from a mossy well hard by when I was 
thirsty. As for food, I made at once an expedition to the 
nearest cottage on my lands, where dwelt one Robin Sandi- 
lands, who straightway supplied all my needs and gave me 
much useful information to boot. Afterwards he came 
every second day to a certain part of the hill with food, 
which he left there for me to take at my convenience. 
Hence the fare was something better than I had had in my 
previous hiding-place. Also it was a cheerful life. Up 
there on the great flat hilltop, with nothing around me but 
the sky and the measureless air, with no noises in my ear 
but the whistle of hill-birds, with no view save great shoul¬ 
ders of mountain, the mind was raised to something higher 
and freer than of old. Earthly troubles and little squabbles 
and jealousies seemed of less account. The more than 
Catonian gravity of these solemn uplands put to flight all 
pettiness and small ambition. It has been an immemorial 
practice in our borderland that those of ruined fortunes, 
broken men, should take to the hills for concealment, it 
need be, and in any case for satisfaction. Verily twelve 
months of that pure air would make a gentleman of a knave, 
and a hero of the most sordid trader. 

However, ere June had merged in July, I found myself 
in want of some companion to cheer my solitude. I would 
have given much for some like-minded fellow-wayfarer, but 
since that might not be had I was fain to content myself 
with a copy of Plotinus, which I had got with all the diffi¬ 
culty in the world from the house of Bams. It happened 
on a warm afternoon, when, as I lay meditating as was my 
wont in the heather, a great desire came upon me for some 
book to read in. Nothing would do but that I must straight¬ 
way set out for Bams at the imminent peril of my own 
worthless life. It was broad daylight; men were working 
in the fields at the hay; travellers were passing on the 
highway; and for all I knew soldiers were in the house. 


I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 225 

But with a mad recklessness I ventured on the quest, and, 
entering the house boldly, made my way to the library and 
was choosing books. Then I was startled by the noise of 
approaching steps, and seizing hastily the first volume I 
could lay hands on, set off for the hills at the top of my 
speed. The visit had renewed old recollections, and I spent 
a bitter evening reflecting upon my altered position. 

But toward the end of August, when the nights grew 
longer and the sunsets stormy, a change came over the 
weather. The Lammas floods first broke the spell of the 
drought, and for three clear days the rain fell in torrents, 
while I lay in my hole, cold and shivering. These were the 
days of suffering and hunger, though I shrink from writing 
of them and have never told them to any one. On the fourth 
I made an incursion down to my own lands to the cottage of 
my ally. There I heard evil news. The soldiers had come 
oftener than of late and the hunt had been renewed. The 
reward on my head had been doubled, and with much sorrow 
I had the news that the miller of Holmes Mill had been taken 
and carried to Edinburgh. In these dim grey days my 
courage fell, and it took all the consolations of philosophy, 
all my breeding and manly upbringing to keep up my heart. 
Also it became more difficult to go at the three weeks’ end 
to the cairn on Caerdon with the letter for Marjory. 

It was, as far as I remember, for I did not keep good 
count, on the second day of September, that I set out for 
Caerdon on my wonted errand. I had had word from 
Robin Sandilands that the countryside was perilous ; but 
7 better, I thought, that I should run into danger than that 
my lady should have any care on my account. So I clapped 
the written letter in my pocket and set out over the hills 
in a fine storm of wind. 

I went down the little bum of Scrape, which flows into 
Powsail about a mile above the village of Drummelzier. 
Had I dared I would have crossed the lowlands just above 
the village, and forded Tweed at Merlin’s Grave, and so 
won to Caerdon by Rachan and Broughton. But now it 
behoved me to be cautious, so I kept straight over the hills ; 

H 


226 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and, striking the source of a stream called Hopecarton, 
followed it to where it joined the river in the Mossfennan 
haughs. All the time the wind whistled in my teeth and the 
sharpest of showers bit into my skin. I was soon soaked 
to the bone, for which I cared very little, but pushed stead¬ 
fastly on through the rapidly-rising waters of Tweed, and 
scrambled up the back of the Wormel. Here it was stiff 
work, and my legs ached mightily ere I reached the top and 
flung myself on the damp heather to spy out the Holmes 
valley. 

All seemed quiet. The stream, now changed from its 
clearness to a muddy brown, was rolling on its way though 
the fields of stubble. The few houses smoked in peace. 
The narrow road was empty of travellers. . . . Without 
hesitation I ran down the slopes, caring not to look cir¬ 
cumspectly to the left and right. . . . 

I had not run far till something before me brought me 
to a halt and sent me flat among the grass. Just below the 
house of Quarter, coming from the cover of the trees, were 
half a score of soldiers. 

My first thought was to turn back and give up the pro¬ 
ject. My second, to go forward and find a way to cross the 
valley. Happily the foliage was still there, the heath was 
still long, the grass was dense : a man might succeed in 
crossing under cover. 

With a beating heart I crawled through the heather to 
the rushes beside a little stream. This I followed, slowly, 
painfully, down to the valley, looking sharply at every bare 
spot, and running for dear life when under cover of bank 
or brae. By and by I struck the road, and raised myself 
for a look. All was quiet. There was no sign of any man 
about, nothing but the beating of the rain and the ceaseless 
wind. It was possible that they had gone down the vale, 
and were by this time out of sight. Or may be they had gone 
up the water on their way to the moors of Clyde. Or still 
again they might have gone back to the house of Quarter, 
which they doubtless loved better than the rainy out-of- 
doors. In any case they were not there, and nothing 


I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE 227 


hindered me from making a bold sally across the open. 

I rose and ran through the cornfield, cleaving my way 
amid the thick stubble. The heavy moisture clung to my 
soaked clothes and the sweat ran over my face and neck, 
but I held straight on till I gained the drystone dyke at 
the other side and scrambled across it. Here I fell into 
the stream and was soaked again, but the place was not 
deep and I was soon through. Now I was direct beneath 
the house, but somewhat under the cover of the trees; 
and still there was no sign of man and beast. I began to 
think that after all my eyes had deceived me, and taken 
nowt for dragoons. Such a trick was not impossible ; I had 
found it happen before at the winter’s shooting. With this 
pleasing hope I straightened my back and ran more boldly 
up the planting’s side till I gained the moorlands above. 
Here I paused for a second to enjoy my success and look 
back upon the house. 

Suddenly something cracked in the thicket, and a voice 
behind me cried, “ Stop. Gang another step and I fire.” 
So the cup of safety was dashed from my lips at the very 
moment of tasting it. 

I did not obey, but dashed forward to the high moors 
with all my speed. It was conceivable that the men were 
unmounted and their horses stabled, in which case I might 
get something of a lead. If not, I should very soon know 
by the clear convincing proof of a shot in my body. 

My guess was right, and it was some little time ere I 
heard the cries of pursuers behind me. I had made straight 
for the top of the ridge where the ground was rough for 
horses, and I knew that they could not follow me with any 
speed. I was aye a swift runner, having been made long 
and thin in the shanks and somewhat deep-chested. I had 
often raced on the lawn at Barns with my cousin for some 
trifling prize. Now I ran with him again, but for the prize 
of my own life. 

I cannot tell of that race, and to this day the thoughUof 
it makes my breath go faster. I only know that I leaped 
and stumbled and ploughed my way over the hillside, 


228 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

sobbing with weariness and with my heart almost bursting 
my ribs. I never once looked behind, but I could measure 
the distance by the sound of their cries. The great, calm 
face of Caerdon was always before me, mocking my hurry 
and feebleness. If I could but gain the ridge of it, I might 
find safety in one of the deep gullies. Now I had hope, 
now I had lost it and given myself up for as good as dead. 
But still I kept on, being unwilling that any one should see 
me yield, and resolving that if I needs must die I would 
stave it off as long as might be. 

In the end, after hours—or was it minutes ?—I reached 
the crest and crawled down the other side. They were 
still some distance behind and labouring heavily. Near 
me was a little ravine which a slender trickle of flood- 
water fell in a long cascade. I plunged down it, and coming 
to a shelter of overlapping rock crawled far in below, and 
thanked God for my present safety. 

Then I remembered my errand and my letter. I clapped 
my hand to my pocket to draw it forth. The place was 
empty—the letter was gone. With a sickening horror I 
reflected that I had dropped it as I ran, and that my 
enemies must have found it. 

CHAPTER XIV 

I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS 

I lay there, still with fright and anxiety, while the wind 
roared around my hiding-place, and the noise of the horses* 
feet came to my ears. My first thought was to rush out 
and meet them, engage the company and get the letter 
back by force. But a moment’s reflection convinced me 
that this was equal to rushing on my death. There was 
nothing for it but to bide where I was, and pray that I 
might not be discovered. 

The noise grew louder, and the harsh voices of the men 
echoed in the little glen. I lay sweating with fear and I 
know not what foreboding, as I heard the clatter of hooves 


I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS 229 

among the slates and the heavy tread of those who had 
dismounted and were searching every tuft of heather. I 
know not to this day how I escaped. It may be that their 
eyes were blinded with mist and rain ; it may be that my 
hiding-place was securer than I thought, for God knows I 
had no time to choose it; it may be that their search was 
but perfunctory, since they had got the letter ; it may be 
that they thought in their hearts that I had escaped over 
the back of Caerdon and searched only to satisfy their 
leader. At any rate, in a little all was still, save for the 
sound of distant voices, and with vast caution and great 
stiffness of body I drew myself from the hole. 

I have rarely felt more utterly helpless and downcast. 
I had saved my skin, but only by a hairbreadth, and in the 
saving of it I had put the match to my fortunes. For 
that luckless letter gave the man into whose hands it might 
fall a clue to Marjory’s whereabouts. It is true that the 
thing was slight, but still it was there, and ’twas but a 
matter of time till it was unravelled. All was up with 
me. Now that I was thus isolated on Caerdon and the far 
western ridges of the Tweedside hills I could have little 
hope of getting free, for to return to safety I must cross 
either Holmes Water, which was guarded like a street, or 
the lower Tweed, which, apart from the fact that it was in 
roaring flood, could no more be passed by me than the 
gates of Edinburgh. But I give my word it was not this 
that vexed me; nay, I looked forward to danger, even to 
capture, with something akin to hope. But the gnawing 
anxiety gripped me by the throat that once more my poor 
lass would be exposed to the amenities of my cousin, and 
her easy, quiet life at Smitwood shattered for ever. An 
unreasoning fit of rage took me, and I dashed my foot on 
the heather in my hopeless vexation. I cursed every 
soldier, and damned Gilbert to the blackest torments 
which my heart could conjure. 

V But rage, at the best, is vain and I soon ceased. It was 
indeed high time that I should be bestirring myself. I 
could not stay where I was, for in addition to being without 


230 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

food or decent shelter, I was there on the very confines of 
the most dangerous country. Not two miles to the north 
from the place where I lay the hills ceased, and the low- 
lying central moorlands succeeded, which, as being a great 
haunt of the more virulent Whigs, were watched by many 
bands of dragoons. If my life were to be saved I must get 
back once more to the wild heights of the upper Tweed. 

I climbed the gully and, keeping lower down the hill, 
made for the mountain, named Coulter Fell, which is adja¬ 
cent to Caerdon. I know not why I went this way, save 
through a fantastic idea of getting to the very head of the 
Holmes Water and crossing there. Every step I took led 
me into more perilous ground, for it took me farther to the 
westward. It was my sole chance, and in the teeth of 
the wind I wrestled on over the long heather and grey 
sklidders, slipping and stumbling with weariness and 
dispirit. Indeed I know not if anything could have sus¬ 
tained me save the motto of my house, which came always 
to my mind. Virescit vulnere virtus ! The old proud saw 
cheered my heart wondrously. I shall not shame my kin, 
said I to myself ; it shall never be said that misfortune did 
aught to one of my name save raise his valour. 

When I reached the head of the ridge I thought that the 
way was clear before me and that I had outdistanced my 
pursuers. I stood up boldly on the summit and looked 
down on the Holmes Water head. The next minute I had 
flung myself flat again and was hastening to retrace my 
steps. For this was what I saw. All up the stream at 
irregular intervals dragoons were beating the heather in 
their quest for me. Clearly they thought that I had made 
for the low ground. Clearly, also, there was no hope of 
escape in that quarter. 

With a heavy heart I held along the bald face of the 
great Coulter Fell. I know no more heartless mountain 
on earth than that great black scarp, which on that day 
flung its head far up into the mist. The storm, if anything, 
had increased in fury. Every now and then there came a 
burst of sharp hail, and I was fain to shelter for a moment 


I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS 231 


by lying on the earth. Very circumspectly I went, for I 
knew not when through the wall of mist a gleam of buff 
coats or steel might meet me. In such a fashion, half 
creeping, half running, I made my way down the hills 
which flank the Coulter Water, and came at length to the 
range of low hills which look down upon Biggar and the 
lowlands of Clyde. 

I struggled to the top and looked over into the misty 
haughs. The day was thick, yet not so thick that I could 
not see from this little elevation the plain features of the 
land below. I saw the tall trees of Coulter House and the 
grey walls and smoking chimney. Beyond was the road, 
thick in mud, and with scarce a traveller. All seemed 
quiet, and as I looked a wild plan came into my head. Why 
should I not go through the very den of the lion ? What 
hindered me from going down by the marsh of Biggar and 
the woods of Rachan, and thence to my hiding-place ? 
It was the high roads that were unwatched in these days, 
and the byways which had each their sentinel. 

But as I looked again the plan passed from my mind. 
For there below, just issuing from the gateway of Coulter 
House, I saw a man on horseback, and another, and still 
another. I needed no more. A glance was sufficient to 
tell me their character and purport. Gilbert verily had 
used his brains to better advantage than I had ever dreamed 
of. He had fairly outwitted me, and the three airts of 
north and south and west were closed against me. 

There still remained the east, and thither I turned. I 
was shut in on a triangle of hill and moorland, some three 
miles in length and two in breadth. At the east was the 
spur of hill at the foot of the Holmes Water and above the 
house of Rachan. If I went thither I might succeed in 
crossing the breadth of the valley and win to the higher 
hills. It was but a chance, and in my present weakness 
I would as soon have laid me down on the wet earth and 
gone to sleep. But I forced myself to go on, and once 
more I battled with the snell weather. 

I do not very well remember how I crossed the Kilbucho 


232 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

glen, and stumbled through the maze of little streams and 
sheep drains which cover all the place. I had no more 
stomach for the work than an old dog has for coursing. To 
myself I could give no reason for my conduct save a sort 
of obstinacy which would not let me give in. At a place 
called Blendewing I lay down on my face and drank pints 
of water from the burn—a foolish action, which in my 
present condition was like to prove dangerous. In the 
pine-wood at the back of the shieling I laid me down for 
a little to rest, and when once more I forced myself to go 
on, I was as stiff as a ship’s figure-head. In this state I 
climbed the little hills which line the burn, and came to 
the limit of the range above the place called Whiteslade. 

It was now about two o’clock in the afternoon, and the 
storm, so far from abating, grew every moment in fierce¬ 
ness. I began to go hot and cold all over alternately, 
and the mist-covered hills were all blurred to my sight 
like a boy’s slate. Now, by Heaven, thought I, things are 
coming at last to a crisis. I shall either die in a bog-hole, 
or fall into my cousin’s hands before this day is over. A 
strange perverted joy took possession of me. I had nothing 
now to lose, my fortunes were so low that they could sink 
no farther ; I had no cause to dread either soldier or 
weather. And then my poor silly head began to whirl, 
and I lost all power of anticipation. 

To this day I do not know how I crossed the foot of the 
Holmes valley—for this was what I did. The place was 
watched most jealously, for Holmes Mill was there, and the 
junction of the roads to the upper Tweed and the moors 
of Clyde. But the thing was achieved, and my next clear 
remembrance is one of crawling painfully among the low 
birk trees and cliffs on the far side of the Wormel. My 
knees aiid hands were bleeding, and I had a pain in my head 
so terrible that I forgot all other troubles in this supreme 
one. 

It was now drawing towards evening. The grey rain- 
clouds had become darker and the shadows crept over the 
sodden hills. All the world was desert to me, where there 


THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’S LAND 233 

was no shelter. Dawyck and Barns were in the hands of 
the enemy. The cave of the Cor Water was no more. I 
had scarce strength to reach my old hiding-place in the 
hags above Scrape, and if I did get there I had not the 
power to make it habitable. A gravelled and sanded couch 
with a heathery roof is pleasant enough in the dry weather, 
but in winter it is no better than a bog-hole. 

Nevertheless I slid down the hill as best I could and 
set myself to crossing the valley. It was half filled with 
water pools which the flood had left, and at the far side I 
saw the red, raging stream of Tweed. I remember wonder¬ 
ing without interest whether I should ever win over or 
drown there. It was a matter of little moment to me. 
The fates had no further power to vex me. 

But ere I reached the hillfoot I saw something which 
gave me pause, reckless though I had come to be. On 
the one hand there was a glimpse of men coming up the 
valley—mounted men, riding orderly as in a troop. On the 
other I saw scattered soldiers dispersing over the haughland. 
The thought was borne in upon me that I was cut off at 
last from all hope of escape. I received the tidings with 
no fear, scarcely with surprise. My sickness had so much 
got the better of me that though the heavens had opened 
I would not have turned my head to them. But I still 
staggered on, blindly, nervelessly, wondering in my heart 
how long I would keep on my feet. 

But now in the little hollow I saw something before me, 
a glimpse of light, and faces lit by the glow. I felt in¬ 
stinctively the near presence of men. Stumbling towards 
it I went, groping my way as if I were blindfold. Then 
some great darkness came over my brain and I sank on 
the ground. 


CHAPTER XV 

THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’S LAND 

The next period in my life lies still in my mind like a dream. 
I have a remembrance of awaking and an impression of 


234 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

light, and strange faces, and then all was dark again. Of 
those days my memory is a blank ; there is nothing but 
a medley of sickness and weariness, light and blackness, 
and the wild phantoms of a sick man’s visions. 

When I first awoke to clear consciousness, it was towards 
evening in a wild glen just below the Devil’s Beef Tub at 
the head of the Annan. I had no knowledge where I was. 
All that I saw was a crowd of men and women around me, 
a fire burning and a great pot hissing thereon. All that 
I heard was a babel of every noise, from the discordant 
cries of men to the yelping of a pack of curs. I was lying 
on a very soft couch made of skins and cloaks in the shade 
of a little roughly-made tent. Beyond I could see the bare 
hillsides rising shoulder on shoulder, and the sting of air 
on my cheek told me that it was freezing hard. But I 
was not cold, for the roaring fire made the place warm as 
a baker’s oven. 

I lay still and wondered, casting my mind over all the 
events of the past that I could remember. I was still 
giddy in the head, and the effort made me close my eyes 
with weariness. Try as I would I could think of nothing 
beyond my parting from Marjory at Smitwood. All the 
events of my wanderings for the moment had gone from 
my mind. 

By and by I grew a little stronger, and bit by bit the 
thing returned to me. I remembered with great vividness 
the weary incidents of my flight, even up to its end and 
my final sinking. But still the matter was no clearer. I 
had been rescued, it was plain, but by whom, when, where, 
why ? I lay and puzzled over the thing with a curious 
mixture of indifference and interest. 

Suddenly a face looked in upon me, and a loud strident 
voice cried out in a tongue which I scarce fully understood. 
The purport of its words was that the sick man was awake 
and looking about him. In a minute the babel was stilled, 
and I heard a woman’s voice giving orders. Then some 
one came to me with a basin of soup. 

" Drink, lad,” said she ; " ye’ve had a geyan close escape. 


THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’S LAND 235 

but a’ is richt wi’ ye noo. Tak this and see how ye 
feel.’' 

The woman was tall and squarely built like a man; 
indeed, I cannot think that she was under six feet. Her 
face struck me with astonishment, for I had seen no woman 
for many a day since Marjory’s fair face, and the harsh 
commanding features of my nurse seemed doubly strange. 
For dress she wore a black hat tied down over her ears 
with a kerchief, and knotted in gipsy fashion beneath her 
chin. Her gown was of some dark-blue camlet cloth, and so 
short that it scarce reached her knees, though whether this 
fashion was meant for expedition in movement or merely 
for display of gaudy stockings, I know not. Certainly 
her stockings were monstrously fine, being of dark blue 
flowered with scarlet thread, and her shoon were adorned 
with great buckles of silver. Her outer petticoat was 
folded so as to make two large pockets on either side, and 
in the bosom of her dress I saw a great clasp-knife. 

I drank the soup, which was made of some wild herbs 
known only to the gipsy folk, and lay back on my couch. 

“ Now, sleep a wee, lad,” said the woman, “ and I’ll 
warrant ye’ll be as blithe the morn as ever.” 

I slept for some hours, and when I awoke sure enough 
I felt mightily strengthened. It was now eventide and the 
camp-fire had been made larger to cook the evening meal. 
As I looked forth I could see men squatting around it, 
broiling each his own piece of meat in the ashes, while 
several cauldrons sputtered and hissed on the chains. It 
was a wild, bustling sight, and as I lay and watched I was 
not sorry that I had fallen into such hands. For I ever 
loved to see new things and strange ways, and now I was 
like to have my fill. 

They brought me supper, a wild duck roasted and coarse 
home-made bread, and a bottle of very tolerable wine, got 
I know not whence unless from the cellars of some churlish 
laird. I ate it heartily, for I had fasted long in my sick¬ 
ness, and now that I was recovered I had much to make up. 

Then the woman returned and asked me how I did. I 


236 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

told her, “ Well,” and thanked her for her care, asking her 
how I had been rescued and where I was. And this was 
the tale she told me. 

She was of the clan of the Baillies, the great gipsies of 
Tweeddale and Clydesdale, offshoots of the house of 
Lamington, and proud as the devil or John Faa himself. 
They had been encamped in the little haugh at the foot of 
the Wormel on the night of my chase. They had heard a 
cry, and a man with a face like death had staggered in 
among them and fainted at their feet. Captain William 
Baillie, their leader, of whom more anon, had often been 
well-entreated at Barns in my father’s time, and had heard 
of my misfortunes. He made a guess as to who I was and 
ordered that I should be well looked after. Meantime the 
two companies of soldiers passed by, suspecting nothing, 
and not troubling to look for the object of their search, 
who all the while was lying senseless beneath a gipsy tent. 
When all was safe they looked to my condition, and found 
that I was in a raging fever with cold and fatigue. Now 
the gipsies, especially those of our own countryside, are 
great adepts in medicine, and they speedily had all reme¬ 
dies applied to me. For three weeks I lay ill, delirious most 
of the time, and they bore me with them in a litter in all 
their wanderings. I have heard of many strange pieces of 
generosity, but of none more strange than this—to carry 
with much difficulty a helpless stranger over some of the 
roughest land in Scotland, and all for no other motive than 
sheer kindliness to a house which had befriended them of 
old. With them I travelled over the wild uplands of 
Eskdale and Ettrick, and with them I now returned to 
the confines of Tweeddale. 

“ The Captain’s awa' just noo,” added she, " but he’ll 
be back the morn, and blithe he’ll be to see ye so weel.” 

And she left me and I slept again till daybreak. 

When I awoke again it was morning, just such a day as 
the last, frosty and clear and bright. I saw by the bustle 
that the camp was making preparations for starting, and 
I was so well recovered that I felt fit to join them. I no 


THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’S LAND 237 

longer needed to be borne like a child in a litter, but could 
mount horse and ride with the best of them. 

I had risen and gone out to the encampment and was 
watching the activity of man and beast, when one advanced 
from the throng toward me. He was a very tall, handsome 
man, dark in face as a Spaniard, with fine curling mous¬ 
taches. He wore a broad blue bonnet on his head, his 
coat was of good green cloth and his small-clothes of 
black. At his side he carried a sword and in his belt a 
brace of pistols, and save for a certain foreign air in his 
appearance he seemed as fine a gentleman as one could 
see in the land. He advanced to me and made me a very 
courtly bow, which I returned as well as my still-aching 
back permitted me. 

“ I am glad you are recovered, Master John Burnet,” 
said he, speaking excellent English, though with the broad 
accent which is customary to our Scots lowlands. “ Per¬ 
mit me to make myself known to you. I have the honour 
to be Captain William Baillie at your service, captain of 
the ragged regiment and the Egyptian guards.” All this 
he said with as fine an air as if he were His Majesty’s first 
general. 

At the mention of his name I called to mind all I had 
heard of this extraordinary man, the chief of all the south- 
country gipsies, and a character as famous in those days 
and in those parts as Claverhouse or my lord the King. He 
claimed to be a bastard of the house of Lamington, and 
through his mother he traced descent, also by the wrong 
side of the blanket, to the Gay Gordons themselves. Some¬ 
thing of his assumed gen trice showed in his air and manner, 
which was haughty and lofty as any lord's in the land. 
But in his face, among wild passions and unbridled desires, 
I read such shrewd kindliness that I found it in my heart to 
like him. Indeed, while the tales of his crimes are hawked 
at every fair, the tales of his many deeds of kindness are 
remembered in lonely places by folk who have cause to 
bless the name of Baillie. This same captain had indeed 
the manners of a prince, for when he bought anything he 


238 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

was wont to give his purse in payment, and indignantly 
refuse to receive change of any kind. It is only fair to add 
that the money was not got by honest means, but by the 
plunder of the rich and churlish. Yet though his ways 
were roguish his acts were often most Christian-like and 
courteous, and there were worse men in higher places than 
this William Baillie. More, he was reputed the best swords¬ 
man in all Scotland, though, as being barred from the 
society of men of birth and education, his marvellous 
talent was seldom seen. He was of the most indomitable 
courage and self-possession, and even in the court, when on 
his trial, he spoke fearlessly to his judges. I do not seek to 
defend him ; but to me and mine he did a good deed and I 
would seek to be grateful. When long afterwards he was 
killed in a brawl in the alehouse of Newarthill, I heard the 
tidings with some sorrow, for he died bravely, though in an 
ignoble quarrel. 

He now informed me with great civility of the incidents 
of my escape and sickness. When I thanked him he waved 
me off with a great air. 

“ Tut, tut,” said he, " that is a small matter between 
gentlefolk. I have often had kindness from your father, 
and it is only seemly that I should do my best for the son. 
Besides, it is not my nature to see a man so sore pressed by 
the soldiery and not seek to deliver him. It is a predica¬ 
ment I have so often been in myself.” 

A horse was brought for me, a little wiry animal, well 
suited for hills and sure-footed as a goat. When I felt 
myself in the saddle once again, even though it were but a 
gipsy hallion, I was glad ; for to one who has scrambled on 
his own feet for so many days, a horse is something like an 
earnest of better times. Captain Baillie bade me come 
with him to another place, where he showed me a heap of 
gipsy garments. “ It is necessary,” said he, “ if you would 
ride with us that you change your appearance. One of 
your figure riding among us would be too kenspeckle to 
escape folk's notice. You must let me stain your face, too, 
with the juice which we make for our bairns’ cheeks. It 


THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’S LAND 


239 


will wash off when you want it, but till that time it will 
be as fast as sunburn.” So taking a crow’s feather and 
dipping it in a little phial, he with much skill passed it 
over my whole face and hands. Then he held a mirror for 
me to look, and lo and behold, I was as brown as a gipsy or a 
Barbary Moor. I laughed loud and long at my appearance, 
and when I was bidden put on a long green coat, the neigh¬ 
bour of the captain’s, and a pair of stout untanned riding- 
boots, I swear my appearance was as truculent as the 
roughest tinker’s. 

Thus accoutred we set out, the men riding in front in 
pairs and threes, the women behind with donkeys and 
baggage shelties. It was a queer picture, for the clothing 
of all was bright-coloured, and formed a strange contrast 
with the clear, chilly skies and the dim moor. There was 
no fear of detection, for apart from the company that I was 
with, my disguise was so complete that not even the most 
vigilant dragoon could spy me out. Our road was that which 
I had already travelled often to my own great weariness—• 
down Tweed by Rachan and the Mossfennan haughs. I 
had no guess at our destination ; so when at Broughton we 
turned to the westward and headed through the moss to¬ 
wards the town of Biggar, I was not surprised. Nay, I 
was glad, for it brought me nearer to the west country and 
Smitwood, whither I desired to go with the utmost speed. 
For with my returning health my sorrows and cares came 
back to me more fiercely than ever. It could not be that 
my cousin should find out Marjory's dwelling-place at once, 
for in the letter there was no clear information: only 
indefinite hints, which in time would bring him there. The 
hope of my life was to reach the house before him and rescue 
my love, though I had no fixed plan in my mind and would 
have been at a sore loss for aid. Nevertheless, I was quieter 
in spirit, and more hopeful. For, after all, thought I, though 
Gilbert get my lass, he yet has me to deal with, and I will 
follow him to the world’s end ere I let him be. 


240 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

CHAPTER XVI 

HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR 

It was towards evening, a dark November evening, that we 
came near the little town of Biggar. The place lies on a 
sandy bank raised from the wide moss which extends for 
miles by the edge of the sluggish stream. It is a black, 
desolate spot, where whaups and snipe whistle in the back 
streets, and a lane, which begins from the causeway, may 
end in a pool of dark moss-water. But the street is mar¬ 
vellous broad, and there, at the tail of the autumn, is held 
one of the greatest fairs in the lowlands of Scotland, whither 
hawkers and tinkers come in hordes, not to speak of serving- 
men and serving-lasses who seek hire. For three days the 
thing goes on, and for racket and babble it is unmatched 
in the countryside. 

We halted before the entrance to the town on a square of 
dry in the midst of the water-way. The weather had begun 
to draw to storm, and from the east, great masses of rolling 
cloud came up, tinged red and yellow with the dying sun. 
I know not how many the gipsies were, but, with women 
and children, they were not less in number than ninety or a 
hundred. They had with them a great quantity of gear of 
all kinds, and their animals were infinite. Forbye their 
horses and asses, they had dogs and fowls, and many tamed 
birds which travelled in their company. One sight I yet 
remember as most curious. A great long man, who rode on 
a little donkey, had throughout the march kept an ugly 
raven before him, which he treated with much kindness ; 
and on dismounting lifted off with assiduous care. And yet 
the bird had no beauty or accomplishment to merit his 
goodwill. It is a trait of these strange people that they 
must ever have something on which to expend their affec¬ 
tion ; and while the women have their children, the men 
have their pets. The most grim and quarrelsome tinker 
will tend some beast or bird and share with it his last meal. 

When the camp was made, the fire lit, and the evening 






THREE MEN HOLD A TOWN IN TERROR 241 

meal prepared, the men got out their violins and bagpipes, 
and set themselves to enliven the night with music. There 
in the clear space in front of the fire they danced to the tunes 
with great glee and skill. I sat beside the captain and 
watched the picture, and in very truth it was a pleasing one. 
The men, as I have said, were for the most part lithe and 
tall, and they danced with grace. The gipsy women, after 
the age of twenty, grow too harsh-featured for beauty, 
and too manly in stature for elegance. But before that 
age they are uniformly pretty. The free, open-air life and 
the healthy fare makes them strong in body and extraordin¬ 
arily graceful in movement. Their well-formed features, 
their keen, laughing black eyes, their rich complexions, and, 
above all, their masses of coal-black hair become them 
choicely well. So there in the ruddy firelight they danced 
to the quavering music, and peace for once in a while lay 
among them. 

Meanwhile I sat apart with William Baillie, and talked 
of many things. He filled for me a pipe of tobacco, and I 
essayed a practice which I had often heard of before but 
never made trial of. I found it very soothing, and we sat 
there in the bield of the tent and discoursed of our several 
wanderings. I heard from him wild tales of doings in the 
hills from the Pentlands to the Cumberland fells, for his 
habits took him far and wide in the country. He told all 
with the greatest indifference, affecting the air of an ancient 
Stoic, to whom all things, good and evil alike, were the 
same. Every now and then he would break in with a piece 
of moralizing, which he delivered with complete gravity, 
but which seemed to me matter for laughter, coming, as it 
did, after some racy narrative of how he vanquished Moss 
Marshall at the shieling of Kippertree, or cheated the ale- 
wife at Newbigging out of her score. 

On the morrow all went off to the fair save myself, and 
I was left with the children and the dogs. The captain had 
judged it better that I should stay, since there would be folk 
there from around Barns and Dawyck, who might pene¬ 
trate my disguise and spread the tidings. Besides, I knew 


242 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

naught of the tinker trade, and should have been sorely 
out of place. So I stayed at home and pondered over many 
things, notably my present predicament. I thought of all 
my old hopes and plans—to be a scholar and a gentleman of 
spirit, to look well to my lands and have a great name in 
the countryside, to study and make books, maybe even to 
engage in Parliament and State business. And what 
did I now ? Travelling in disguise among tinkers, a branded 
man, with my love and my lands in danger, nay all but 
lost. It was this accursed thought that made the bitterest 
part of my wanderings. 

I was in such a mood when a servant cairn *:om a farm¬ 
house near to get one of the gipsies to come and mend the 
kitchen pot. As I was the only one left, there was nothing 
for it but to go. The adventure cheered me, for its whim¬ 
sicality made me laugh, and la ^hter is the best antidote 
to despair. But I fared very bacu/, for, when I tried my 
’prentice hand at the pot, I was so manifestly incapable 
that the good-wife drove me from the place, calling me an 
idle sorner, and a lazy vagabond, and many other well- 
deserved names. I returned to the camp with my ears 
still ringing from her cuff, but in a more wholesome temper 
of mind. 

The greater part of the others returned at the darkening, 
most with well-filled pockets, though I fear it was not all 
come by honestly ; and a special feast was prepared. That 
gipsy meal was of the strangest yet most excellent quality. 
There was a savoury soup made of all kinds of stewed game 
and poultry, and after that the flesh of pigs and game 
roasted and broiled. There was no seasoning to the food 
save a kind of very bitter vinegar ; for these people care 
little for salt or any condiment. Moreover, they had the 
strange practice of grating some hard substance into their 
wine, which gave it a flavour as if it had been burned in the 
mulling. 

The meal was over and I was thinking of lying down for 
the night, when William Baillie came back. I noted that 
in the firelight his face was black with anger. I heard him 


THREE MEN HOLD A TOWN IN TERROR 243 

speak to several of his men, and his tone was the tone of 
one who was mastering some passion. By and by he came 
to where I sat and lay down beside me. 

“ Do you wish to pleasure me ? ” he said shortly. 

" Why, yes,” I answered ; " you have saved my life and 
I would do all in my power to oblige you, though I fear 
that just now my power is little.” 

" It’s a’ I want,” said he, leaving'his more correct speech 
for the broad Scots of the countryside. “ Listen, and I’ll 
tell ye what happened the day at the fair. We tinker-folk 
went aboot our business, daein' ill to nane, and behavin’ 
like dacent, peaceable, quiet-mainnered men and women. 
The place was in a gey steer, for a heap o’ Wast-country 
trash was there frae the backs o’ Straven and Douglasdale, 
and since a’ the godly and reputable folk thereaways hae 
ta’en to the hills, nane but theTabble are left. So as we were 
gaun on canny, and sellin’ our bits o’ things and daein’ our 
bits o’ jobs, the drucken folk were dancin’ and cairryin’ on 
at the ither end. By and by doun the Fair come a drucken 
gairdener, one John Cree. I ken him weel, a fosy, black- 
hertit scoondrel as ever I saw. My wife, whom ye know, 
for it was her that lookit after ye when ye were sick, was 
standin’ at the side when the man sees her. He comes up 
to her wi’ his leerin’, blackgairdly face, and misca’s her for 
a tinkler and a’ that was bad, as if the warst in our tribe 
wasna better than him. 

“ Mary, she stands back, and bids him get out or she wad 
learn him mainners. 

“ But he wadna take a tellin’. ' Oh, ho, my bawbee joe,’ 
says he, ' ye're braw and high the day. Whae are you to 
despise an honest man ? A wheen tinkler doxies ! ’ And 
he took up a stane and struck her on the face. 

“ At this a’ our folk were for pittin’ an end to him there 
and then. But I keepit them back and bade them let the 
drucken fule be. Syne he gaed awa’, but the folks o’ the 
Fair took him up, and we’ve got nocht but ill-words and ill- 
tongue a’ day. But, by God, they’ll pay for it the morn.” 
And the captain looked long and fiercely into the embers. 


244 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" I hae a plan," said he, after a little, " and, Master 
Burnet, I want ye to help me. The folk o’ the fair are just 
a wheen scum and riddlings. There are three o’ us here, 
proper men, you and myself and my son Matthew. If ye 
will agree to it we three will mount horse the morn and clear 
oot that fair, and frichten the folk o’ Biggar for the next 
twalmonth.” 

“ What would you do ? ” said I. 

“ I hae three suits/' he said, “ o’ guid crimson cloth, 
which I got frae my grandfather and have never worn. I 
have three braw horses, which cam oot o' England three 
year syne. If the three o’ us mount and ride through the 
fair there will be sic a scattering as was never heard tell 
o’ afore i’ the auld toun. And, by God, if that gairdener- 
body doesna gang wud wi’ fricht, my name’s no William 
Baillie.” 

Now, I do not know what madness prompted me to join 
in this freak. For certain it was a most unbecoming thing 
for a man of birth to be perched on horseback in the com¬ 
pany of two reckless tinkers to break the king’s peace and 
terrify His Majesty’s lieges of Biggar. But a dare-devil- 
spirit—the recoil from the morning's despondency—now 
held me. Besides, the romance of the thing took me cap¬ 
tive ; it was as well that a man should play all the parts 
he could in the world ; and to my foolish mind it seemed a 
fine thing that one who was a man of birth and learning 
should not scruple to cast in his lot with the rough gipsies. 

So I agreed readily enough, and soon after went to sleep 
with weariness, and knew nothing till the stormy dawn 
woke the camp. 

Then the three of us dressed in the crimson suits, and 
monstrously fine we looked. The day was dull, cloudy, 
and with a threat of snow ; and the massing of clouds 
which we had marked on the day before was now a thousand¬ 
fold greater. We trotted out over the green borders of the 
bog to the town, where the riot and hilarity were audible. 
The sight of the three to any chance spectator must have 
been fearsome beyond the common. William Baillie, not to 


THREE MEN HOLD A TOWN IN TERROR 245 

speak of his great height and strange dress, had long black 
hair which hung far below his shoulders, and his scarlet 
hat and plume made him look like the devil in person. 
Matthew, his son, was something smaller, but broad and 
sinewy, and he sat his horse with an admirable grace. As 
for myself, my face was tanned with sun and air and the 
gipsy dye, my hair hung loosely on my shoulders in the 
fashion I have always worn it, and I could sit a horse with 
the best of them. 

When we came near the head of the street we halted and 
consulted. The captain bade us obey him in all and follow 
wherever he went, and above all let no word come from our 
mouth. Then we turned up our sleeves above the elbows, 
drew our swords and rode into the town. 

At the first sight of the three strange men who rode 
abreast a great cry of amazement arose, and the miscel¬ 
laneous rabble was hushed. Then, in a voice of thunder, 
the captain cried out that they had despised the gipsies the 
day before, and that now was the time of revenge. Suiting 
the action to the word he held his naked sword before him, 
and we followed at a canter. 

I have never seen so complete a rout in my life. Stalls, 
booths, tables were overturned, and the crowd flew wildly 
in all directions. The others of the tribe, who had come 
to see the show, looked on from the back, and to the terri¬ 
fied people seemed like fresh assailants. I have never heard 
such a hubbub as rose from the fleeing men and screaming 
women. Farmers, country-folk, ploughmen mingled with 
fat burgesses and the craftsmen of the town in one wild 
rush for safety. And yet we touched no one, but kept on 
our way to the foot of the street, with our drawn swords 
held stark upright in our hands. Then we turned and 
came back; and lo ! the great fair was empty, and wild, 
fearful faces looked at us from window and lane. 

Then, on our second ride, appeared at the church gate 
the minister of the parish, a valiant man, who bade us 
halt. 

" Stop,” said he, " you men of blood, and cease from 


246 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

disturbing the town, or I will have you all clapt in the 
stocks for a week/' 

Then the captain spoke up and told him of the wrong and 
insult of the day before. 

At this the worthy man looked grave. " Go back to 
your place,” he said, “ and it shall be seen to. I am wae 
that the folk of this town, who have the benefit of my 
ministrations, set no better example to puir heathen Egyp¬ 
tians. But give up the quarrel at my bidding. ‘ Ven¬ 
geance is mine, and I will repay,’ saith the Lord.” 

“ But haply, sir,” said I, “ as Augustine saith, we may 
be the Lord’s executors.” And with this we turned and 
rode off, leaving the man staring in open-mouthed wonder. 


CHAPTER XVII 

OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR 

When we came to the camping-place it was almost deserted. 
The people had all gone to the fair, and nothing was to be 
seen save the baggage and the children. The morning had 
grown wilder and a thin snow was falling, the earnest of a 
storm. The mist was drawing closer and creeping over the 
boglands. I minded an old saying of Tam Todd’s, “ Rouk’s 
snaw’s wraith,” and I looked for a wild storm with gladness, 
for it would keep the dragoon gentry at home and prohibit 
their ill-doing. 

But just in front at the border of the fog and at the 
extremity of the dry land, the captain saw something which 
made him draw up his horse sharply and stare. Then he 
turned to Matthew, and I saw that his face was flushed. 
" Ride a’ your pith, man,” he said, “ ride like the wind to the 
toun, and bid our folk hurry back. Nae words and be off.” 
And the obedient son galloped away to do his bidding. 

He gripped me by the arm and pulled me to the side. 
" Ye’ve guid een,” he said. " D’ye see that ower by the 
laigh trees ? ” I looked and looked again and saw nothing. 

“ Maybe no,” he said, “ ye haena gipsy een ; but in half 


OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR 247 


an’ oor we’ll a’ ken what it means. It’s the Ruthvens wi’ 
the Yerl o’ Hell. I ken by their red-stripit breeks and their 
lang scythe-sticks. Ye mann ken that for lang we’ve had 
a bluid-feud wi’ that clan, for the Baillies are aye gentrice 
and hae nae trokins wi’ sic blaggard tinklers. We’ve focht 
them yince and twice and aye gotten the better, and noo I 
hear that little Will Ruthven, that’s him that they ca’ the 
Yerl o’ Hell for his deevilry, has sworn to fecht us till there’s 
no a Baillie left to keep up the name. And noo they’ve 
come. ’Faith there’ll be guid bluid spilt afore thae wratches 
learn their lesson.” 

The news struck me with vast astonishment and a little 
dismay. I had often longed to see a battle and now I was 
to be gratified. But what a battle ! A fight between two 
bloodthirsty gipsy clans, both as wild as peat-reek, and 
armed with no more becoming weapons than bludgeons, 
cutlasses, and scythe-blades. More, the event would place 
me in a hard position. I could not fight. It would be too 
absurd for words that I should be mixed up in their mellays. 
But the man at my side expected me to aid him. I owed 
my life to him, and with these folk gratitude is reckoned 
one of the first of the virtues. To refuse William Baillie 
my help would be to offer him the deepest unkindness. 
Yet I dismissed the thought at once as preposterous. I 
could no more join the fight than I could engage in a pot¬ 
house or stable brawl. There was nothing for it but to 
keep back and watch the thing as a silent spectator. 

In a little I began to see the band. It would number, as 
I guessed, some hundred and ten, with women and children. 
The captain, as he looked, grew fierce with excitement. 
His dark eyes blazed, and his brow and cheeks were crim¬ 
son. Ever and anon he looked anxiously in the direction 
of the town, waiting for the help which was to come. As 
the foe came nearer he began to point me out the leaders. 
“ There’s Muckle Will,” he cried, “ him wi’ the lang bare 
shanks, like the trams o’ a cairt. He’s the strongest and 
langest man frae the Forth to Berwick. My God, but it’ll 
be a braw fellow that can stand afore him. And there’s 


248 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

Kennedy himsel’, that sonsy licht-coloured man. They 
say he’s the best wi’ the sma’-sword in a’ Nithsdale, but 
’faith, he’s me to reckon wi’ the day. And there’s that 
bluidy deil, Jean Ruthven, whae wad fecht ony man in 
braid Scotland for a pund o’ ’oo’. She’s as guid as a man, 
and they say has been the death o’ mair folk than the Yerl 
himsel’. But here come our ain men. Come on, Rob and 
Wat, and you, Mathy, gang wide to the right wi’ some. It’s 
a great day this. Nae wee cock-fecht, but a muckle lang 
deidly battle.” And the man’s face was filled with fierce 
joy. 

Meanwhile both the forces had taken up their position 
opposing one another, and such a babel of tinkler yells arose 
that I was deafened. Each side had their war-cry, and, in 
addition, the women and children screamed the most hor¬ 
rible curses and insults against the enemy. Yet the battle 
was not arrayed in haphazard fashion, but rather with 
some show of military skill. The stronger and bigger men 
of the clan with the captain himself were in the middle. 
On the right and left were their sons, with a more mixed 
force, and below all the women were drawn up like harpies, 
looking wellnigh as fierce and formidable as the men. 

“ You’ll come to the front wi’ me, Maister Burnet,” said 
the captain. “ Ye’re a guid man o’ your hands and we’ll 
need a' we can get i’ the middle.” 

" No,” said I, “ I cannot.” 

“ Why ? ” he asked, looking at me darkly. 

" Tut, this is mere foolery. You would not have me 
meddling in such a fray ? ” 

“ You think we’re no worthy for you to fecht wi’,” he said 
quietly, “ we, that are as guid as the best gentlemen i’ the 
land, and have saved your life for ye, Master John Burnet. 
Weel, let it be. I dinna think ye wad hae dune it.” Then 
the tinker blood came out. “ Maybe you’re feared,” said 
he, with an ugly smile. 

I turned away and made no answer; indeed, I could 
trust myself to make none. I was bitterly angry and un¬ 
happy. All my misfortunes had drawn to a point in that 


OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR 249 

moment. I had lost everything. A fatal mischance seemed 
to pursue me. Now I had mortally offended the man who 
had saved my life, and my outlook was drear enough. 

I had been looking the other way for a second, and when 
I turned again the fray had begun. The Earl, with a cut¬ 
lass, had engaged the captain, and the wings, if one may 
call them by so fine a word, had met and mingled in con¬ 
fusion. But still it was not a general mellay, but rather 
a duel between the two principal combatants. The little 
man with the short sword showed wondrous agility, and 
leaped and twisted like a tumbler at a fair. As for the 
Baillie, he had naught to do but keep him at a distance, for 
he was both better armed and better skilled. As he fought 
he let his eye wander to the others and directed them with 
his voice. “ Come up, Mathy lad,” he would cry. “ Stand 
weel into them, and dinna fear the lasses.” Then as he 
saw one of his own side creeping behind the Earl to strike a 
back blow, he roared with anger and bade him keep off. 
“ Let the man be,” he cried. “ Is’t no eneuch to hae to 
fecht wi’ blaggards that ye maun be blaggards yoursel’ ? ” 

But in a little the crowd closed round them and they had 
less room for play. Then began a grim and deadly fight. 
The townspeople, at the word of the tinkers fighting, had 
left the fair and come out in a crowd to witness it. It was 
a sight such as scarce a man may see twice in his lifetime. 
The mist rolled low and thick, and in the dim light the wild, 
dark faces and whirling weapons seemed almost monstrous. 
Now that the death had begun there was little shouting ; 
nothing was heard save the rattle of the cutlasses, and a 
sort of sighing as blows were given and received. The 
bolder of the women and boys had taken their place, and at 
the back the little children and young girls looked on with 
the strangest composure. I grew wild with excitement, and 
could scarce keep from yelling my encouragements or my 
warnings ; but these had no thought of uttering a word. 
Had there been a cloud of smoke or smell of powder it would 
have seemed decent, but this quietness and clearness jarred 
on me terribly. Moreover, the weapons they fought with 


250 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

were rude, but powerful to inflict deep wounds, being all 
clubs and short swords and scythe-blades fixed on poles. 
Soon I saw ghastly cuts on the faces of the foremost and 
blood-splashes on brow and cheek. Had there been horses 
it would not have seemed so cruel, for there would have 
been the rush and trample, the hot excitement of the charge 
and the recoil. But in the quiet, fierce conflict on foot 
there seemed nothing but murder and horror. 

At first the battle was fought in a little space, and both 
sides stood compact. But soon it widened, and the wings 
straggled out almost to the edge of the bog-water. The 
timid onlookers fled as from the plague, and I, in my station 
in the back, was in doubts whether I should bide still or no. 
But in front of me were the girls and children, and I thought 
if I could do naught else I might bide still and see to them. 
For the horns of the Ruthven’s company (which was far 
the larger) threatened to enclose the Baillies, and cut off 
their retreat. Meantime the mist had come down still 
closer and had given that decent covering which one de¬ 
sires in a bloody fray. I could scarce see the front ranks of 
our opponents, and all I could make out of my friends was 
the captain’s bright sword glinting as he raised it to the 
cut. 

But that soon happened which I had feared. For the 
Ruthvens, enclosing our wings, had all but surrounded us, 
since the captain had put the weaker there and left all the 
more valiant for the centre. Almost before I knew I saw 
one and another great gipsy rush around and make towards 
the girls who had not joined the battle. In that moment 
I saw the bravest actions which it has ever been my lot to 
see. For these slim, dark-haired maids drew knives and 
stood before their assailants, as stout-hearted as any sol¬ 
diers of the King’s guard. The children raised a great cry 
and huddled close to one another. One evil-looking fellow 
flung a knife and pierced a girl’s arm. ... It was too much 
for me. All my good resolutions went to the wind, and I 
forgot my pride in my anger. With a choking cry I drew 
my sword and rushed for him. 


OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR 251 

After that I know not well what happened. I was borne 
back by numbers, then I forced my way forward, then back 
I fell again. At first I fought calmly, and more from a 
perverted feeling of duty than any lust of battle. But soon 
a tinker knife scratched my cheek, and a tinker bludgeon 
rattled sorely against my head. Then I grew very hot and 
angry. I saw all around me a crowd of fierce faces and 
gleaming knives, and I remember naught save that I hurled 
myself onward, sword in hand, hewing and slashing like a 
devil incarnate. I had never drawn blade in overmastering 
passion before, and could scarce have thought myself cap¬ 
able of such madness as then possessed me. The wild moss¬ 
trooping blood, which I had heired from generations of 
robber lords, stood me in good stead. A reckless joy of 
fight took me. I must have seemed more frantic than the 
gipsies themselves. 

At last, I know not how, I found my way to the very 
front rank. I had been down often, and blood was flowing 
freely from little flesh wounds, but as yet I was unscathed. 
There I saw William Baillie laying about him manfully 
though sore wounded in the shoulder. When he saw me 
he gave me a cry of welcome. “ Come on,” he cried, " I 
kenned ye wad think better o’t. We’ve muckle need o' a 
guid man the noo.” And he spoke the truth, for anything 
more fierce and awesome than the enemy I have never seen. 
The Earl of Hell was mangled almost to death, especially 
in the legs and thighs. The flesh was clean cut from the 
bone of one of his legs, and hung down over the ankles, till 
a man grew sick at the sight. But he was whole compared 
with his daughter, Jean Ruthven, who was the chief’s wife. 
Above and below her bare breasts she was cut to the bone, 
and so deep were the gashes that the movement of her 
lungs, as she breathed, showed between the ribs. The look 
of the thing made me ill with horror. I felt giddy, and 
almost swooned; and yet, though white as death, she 
fought as undauntedly as ever. I shunned the sight, and 
strove to engage her husband alone, the great fair-haired 
man, who, with no weapon but a broken cutlass, had cleared 


252 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

all around him. I thrust at him once and again and could 
get no nearer for the swing of his mighty arms. Then the 
press behind, caused I suppose by the Ruthvens at the 
back, drove me forward, and there was nothing for it but 
to grapple with him. Our weapons were forced from our 
hands in the throng, and, with desperate energy, we clutched 
one another. I leaped and gripped him by the neck, and 
the next instant we were both down, and a great, suffocating 
wave of men pressed over us. I felt my breath stop, and 
yet I kept my grip and drew him closer. All was blackness 
around, and even as I clutched I felt a sharp thrill of agony 
through my frame, which seemed to tear the life from my 
heart, and I was lost to all. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

SMITWOOD 

That I am alive to this day and fit to write this tale, I owe 
to William Baillie. He saw me fall and the press close 
over me, and, though hard beset himself, he made one effort 
for my salvation. “ Mathy,” he cried, “ and Tam and 
Andra, look after your man and get him up,” and then once 
more he was at death-grips. They obeyed his bidding as 
well as they might, and made a little ring in the centre 
around me, defending me with their weapons. Then they 
entwined us and lifted me, senseless as I was, to the light 
and air. As for Kennedy, he was heavy and florid, and his 
life had gone from him at the first overthrow. 

I do not know well how I was got from the fray. I think 
I would have been killed, had not the Ruthvens, whose best 
men were wounded, given way a little after. Their trick 
of surrounding the enemy, by spreading wide their wings, 
was not wise and met' with sorry success. For it left their 
middle so weak, that when Kennedy and the valiant Earl 
had been mastered, there remained no resistance. So when 
my friends made haste to push with me to the back they 
found their path none so hard. And after all that there 


SMITWOOD 


253 


was nothing but confusion and rout, the one side fleeing 
with their wounded, the other making no effort to pursue, 
but remaining to rest and heal their hurts. 

As I have said, I was unconscious for some time, and 
when I revived I was given a sleeping draught of the gip¬ 
sies’ own making. It put me into a profound slumber, so 
that I slept for the rest of the day and night and well on to 
the next morning. When I awoke I was in a rough cart 
drawn by two little horses, in the centre of the troop who 
were hurrying westward. I felt my body with care and 
found that I was whole and well. A noise still hummed in 
my head and my eyes were not very clear, as indeed was 
natural after the fray of the day before. But I had no sore 
hurt, only little flesh scratches, which twinged at the time, 
but ‘would soon be healed. 

But if this was my case it was not that of the rest of the 
band. The battle had been like all such gipsy fights—very 
terrible and bloody, but with no great roll of dead. Indeed, 
on our side we had not lost a man, and of the enemy Kennedy 
alone had died, who, being a big man and a full-blooded, 
had been suffocated in his fall by the throng above him. 
It was just by little that I had escaped the same fate, for 
we two at the time had been in death-grips, and had I not 
been thin and hardy of frame, I should have perished there 
and then. But the wounds were so terrible on both sides 
that it scarce seemed possible that many could ever recover. 
Yet I heard, in after days, that not one died as a result of 
that day’s encounter. Even the Earl of Hell and his 
daughter Jean recovered of their wounds and wandered 
through the country for many years. But the sight of the 
folk around me on the march was very terrible. One man 
limped along with a great gash in his thigh in which I could 
have placed my open hand. Another had three fingers 
shorn off, and carried his maimed and bandaged hand 
piteously. Still a third lay in the cart with a breast wound 
which gaped at every breath, and seemed certain ere long 
to bring death. Yet of such strength and hardihood was 
this extraordinary people that they made light of such 


254 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

wounds, and swore they would be healed in three weeks’ 
time. Perhaps this tenacity of life is due in some part to 
their excellent doctoring, for it is certain that these folk 
have great skill in medicaments, and with herb-concoctions, 
and I know not what else, will often perform wondrous 
cures. I have my own case as an instance—where first I 
was restored from a high fever by their skill, and, second, 
from a fit of suffocation far more deadly. 

The storms of the day before had passed and a light frost 
set in which made the air clear and sharp and the country¬ 
side plain even to the distances. We were passing under 
the great mass of Tintock—a high, hump-backed hill which 
rises sheer from the level land and stands like a mighty 
sentinel o’er the upper Clyde valley. We travelled slow, 
for the wounded were not fit to bear much speed, and many 
of the folk walked to suffer the horses to be yoked to the 
carts. After a little I espied the captain walking at the side, 
with his shoulder and cheeks bandaged, but as erect and 
haughty as ever. Seeing that I was awake, he came over 
beside me and asked very kindly after my health. His ten¬ 
derness toward me was as great as if I had been his son 
or nearest blood-kin. When I told him that I was well and 
would get down and walk beside him, he said that that 
would be a most unbecoming thing and would never do, 
but that he would have a horse brought me from the back. 
So a horse was brought, an excellent black, with white on 
its fetlocks, and I mounted ; and despite some little stiff¬ 
ness, found if much to my liking. 

He told of the end of the battle and all the details of its 
course. He was in the highest spirits, for though his folk 
were sore wounded, they had yet beaten their foes and sent 
them off in a worse plight than themselves. Above all he 
was full of a childish vanity in his own prowess. " Saw you 
that muckle hullion, Kennedy, Master Burnet ? I gied 
him some gey licks, but I never could win near eneuch to 
him for his muckle airm. You grippit him weel and he’ll 
no bother us mair. His ain folk ’ll keep quiet eneuch aboot 
the affair. I’ll warrant, so we may look to hear naething 


SMITWOOD 


255 


mair aboot it. I’m thinking tae, that the Yerl 11 no seek 
to come back my gate again. I tried to mak him fecht like 
a gentleman, but faith, he wadna dae’t. He just keepit 
cuttin’ at my shanks till I was fair wild, and telled some o' 
our ain folk to tak the legs frae the body wi' a scythe- 
stick. I haena seen a fecht like it since that at the Roman- 
no Brig fifteen years syne, at ween the Faas and the Shawes„ 
when they were gaun frae Haddington to Harestane. Our 
folk wad hae been in’t if they hadna come’t up ower late 
and juist seen the end o’t.” 

“ And will you have no further trouble about the matter ? 

I asked. “If the justice gets word of it will you not 
suffer ? ” 

“ Na, na,” he said, with conviction, “ nae fear. Thae 
things dinna come to the lugs o’ the law. We didna dae 
ony harm except to oorsels, and there’s nane o’ us killed 
save Kennedy whae dee’d a naitural death, so there can 
be nae word aboot that. Forbye, how’s the law to grip us ? ” 
And he turned on me a face full of roguish mirth which 
looked oddly between the bandages. “If they heard we 
were at Biggar Moss yae day and cam after us, afore the 
mom we wad be in the Douglas Muirs or the Ettrick Hills. 
We’re kittle cattle to fash wi’. We gang slow for ordinary 
but when aucht presses we can flee like a flock o' stirlins." 

“ Then where are you going ? ” I asked. 

“ Where, but to Lanerick,’’ he said. “ There’s a fah 
comes on there Monday three days, and the muir is grand 
beddin’. I didna ask your will on the maitter, for I kenned 
a’ places the noo were muckle the same to ye, provided they 
were safe and no ower far away frae the wast country.’’ 

“ That’s true enough,’’ I said, thinking sadly of Marjory- 
and my miserable plight. I had not told Baillie anything 
of my story, for I did not care to commit it to such ears. 
But I was glad that we travelled in this airt, for I had still 
in my heart a wild hope that by some fortunate chance I 
should be in time to save my love. 

About midday we came to Lanark Moor, where the bag¬ 
gage and shelties, as well as most of the women and chil- 


256 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

dren, were left behind to find an encampment. As for us, 
we pushed on to the town to see what was doing and hear 
some news of the countryside. I had no fear of detection, 
for in my new guise I passed for the veriest gipsy in the land. 
I was still clothed in my suit of crimson, but the fight had 
made it torn in many places, and all smirched with mire and 
bog-water. Also, my face was not only stained with the 
captain's dye, but the storms and dust of the encounter 
had deepened its colour to the likeness of an Ethiop. I had 
not a rag left of gentility, save maybe the sword which still 
swung at my side. In this fashion I rode by Baillie’s elbow 
in a mood neither glad nor sad, but sunk in a sort of dogged 
carelessness. The entrance to the town was down a steep 
path from the moor, for the place is built above the gorge 
of Clyde, yet something lower than the surrounding moor¬ 
lands. Far on all sides I had a view of the wide landscape, 
from the rugged high hills of Tweeddale and the upper 
Clyde to the lowlands in the west which stretch to Glasgow 
and the sea. 

But when we came to the town there was a great to-do, 
men running about briskly and talking to one another, old 
women and young gossiping at house and close doors, and 
the upper windows filled with heads. There was a curious, 
anxious hum throughout the air, as if some great news had 
come or was coming ere long. I forgot for a moment my 
position and leaned from the saddle to ask the cause of a 
man who stood talking to a woman at the causeway side. 
He looked at me rudely. " What for d’ye want to ken, ye 
black-faced tinkler ? D’ye think it’ll matter muckle to 
you what king there is when you’re hangit ? ” But the 
woman was more gracious and deigned to give me some sort 
of answer. <f There’s word o’ news,” she said. “ We kenna 
yet what it is, and some think ae thing and some anither, 
but a’ are agreed that it’ll make a gey stramash i’ the land. 
A man cam ridin’ here an hour syne and has been closeted 
wi’ the provost ever since. Honest man, his heid ’ll be fair 
turned if there’s onything wrang, for he’s better at sellin' 
tatties than reddin’ the disorders o’ the state.” And then 


SMITWOOD 


257 

the man by her side bade her hold her peace, and I rode on 
without hearing more. 

By and by we came to the market-place where stands the 
ancient cross of Lanerick, whereat all proclamations are 
made for the Westlands. Straight down from it one looks 
on the steep braes of Kirkfieldbank and the bridge which 
the Romans built over the river ; and even there the mur¬ 
mur of the great falls in Clyde comes to a man’s ear. The 
place was thronged with people standing in excited groups, 
and the expression on each face was one of expectancy. 
Folk had come in from the country round as on some errand 
of inquiry, and the coats of a few of the soldiery were to be 
discerned among the rest. But I had no fear of them, for 
they were of the lowlands regiment, and had no knowledge 
of me. The sight of us, and of myself in especial, for Baillie 
had changed his garb, caused some little stir in the crowd 
and many inquisitive looks. 

The captain came up to me. " There’s dooms little to be 
dune here,” he cried ; “ the place is in sic a fever, I canna 
think what’s gaun to happen. We may as weel gang back 
to the muirs and wait till things quiet doun.” 

" I know not either,” said I, and yet all the time I knew 
I was lying, for I had some faint guess at the approach of 
great tidings, and my heart was beating wildly. 

Suddenly the crowd parted at the farther end and a 
man on a wearied grey horse rode up toward the cross. He 
held a bundle of papers in his hand, and his face was red 
with hurry and excitement. " News,” he cried hoarsely, 
" great news, the greatest and the best that the land has 
heard for many a day.” And as the people surged round 
in a mighty press he waved them back and dismounted from 
his horse. Then slowly and painfully he ascended the 
steps of the cross and leaned for a second against the shaft 
to regain his breath. Then he stood forward and cried out 
in a loud voice that all in the market-place might hear. “ I 
have ridden post-haste from Edinbro’ with the word, for it 
came only this morn. James Stewart has fled from the 
throne, and William of Orange has landed in the South 

1 


253 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and is on his way to London. The bloody house has fallen 
and the troubling of Israel is at an end." 

At that word there went through the people a sound 
which I shall never forget as long as I live—the sigh of 
gratitude for a great deliverance. It was like a passing of 
a wind through a forest, and more terrible to hear than all 
the alarums of war. And then there followed a mighty 
shout, so loud and long that the roofs trembled, and men 
tossed bonnets in air and cried aloud and wept and ran 
hither and thither like madmen. At last the black cloud 
of the persecution had lifted from their land, and they were 
free to go and tell their kinsmen in hiding that all danger 
was gone for ever. 

As for myself, what shall I say ? My first feeling was 
one of utter joy. Once more I was free to go whither I 
liked, and call my lands my own. Now I could overmaster 
my cousin and set out to the saving of my lass. Indeed I, 
who am a king’s man through and through, and who sor¬ 
rowed in after days for this very event, am ashamed to say 
that my only feeling at the moment was one of irrepressible 
gladness. No one, who has not for many months been 
under the shadow of death, can tell the blessedness of the 
release. But even as I joyed, I thought of Marjory, and 
the thought recalled me to my duty. 

" Have you a fast horse ? " I said to the captain. 

He looked at me in amazement, for the tidings were 
nothing to him, and in my face he must have read some¬ 
thing of my tale. 

“ You mean-" he said. 

" Yes, yes," said I ; " it means that I am now safe, and 
free to save another. I must be off hot-foot. Will you 
lend me a horse ? " 

“ Take mine," said he, " it’s at your service, and take 
my guidwill wi' ye." And he dismounted and held out his 
hand. 

I mounted and took his in one parting grip. “ God bless 
you, William Baillie, for an honest man and a gentleman," 
and I was off without another word. 


SMITWOOD 


259 


It must have been a strange thing for the people of Lanark 
to see me on that day, as they ran hither and thither to tell 
the good tidings. For, in all my savage finery, I dashed up 
the narrow street, scattering folk to the right and left like 
ducks from a pond, and paying no heed to a hundred angry 
threats which rang out behind me. In a little I had gained 
the moor, and set my face for Douglasdale and my lady. 
Smitwood was but ten miles away and the path to it easy. 
In a short hour I should be there, and then—ah, then, it 
could not be otherwise, it must be, that Marjory should be 
there to greet me, and be the first to hear my brave news. 

I passed over the road I had come, and had no time to 
reflect on the difference in my condition from two hours 
agone, when abject and miserable I had plodded along it. 
Now all my head was in a whirl, and my heart in a storm 
of throbbing. The horse’s motion was too slow to keep pace 
with my thoughts and my desires ; and I found me posting 
on ahead of myself, eager to be at my goal. In such wild 
fashion I rode over the low haughlands of Clyde, andTorded 
the river at a deep place where it flowed still and treacher¬ 
ous among reeds, never heeding, but swimming my horse 
across, though I had enough to do to land on the other side. 
Then on through the benty moorlands of Douglas-side and 
past the great wood of the Douglas Castle. My whole 
nature was centred in one great desire of meeting, and yet 
even in my longing I had a deadly suspicion that all might 
not be well—that I had come too late. 

Then I saw the trees and the old house of Smitwood 
lying solemn among its meadows. I quickened my horse 
to fresh exertion. Like a whirlwind he went up the avenue, 
making the soft turf fly beneath his heels. Then with a 
start I drew him up at the door and cried loudly for admit¬ 
tance. 

Master Veitch came out with a startled face and looked 
upon me with surprise. 

“ Is Marjory within ? ” I cried. “ Marjory ! Quick, tell 
me!” 

" Marjory,” he replied, and fell back with a white face. 


260 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

" Do you seek Marjory ? She left here two days agone to 
go to you, when you sent for her. Your servant Nicol went 
after her.” 

“ O my God,” I cried, " I am too late ” ; and I leaned 
against my horse in despair. 


BOOK IV—THE WESTLANDS 


CHAPTER I 

I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O* CLYDE 

For a second I was so filled with despair at Master Veitch’s 
news that my mind was the veriest blank and I could get 
no thought save that bitterest of all—that my lady was 
gone. But with a great effort I braced myself to action. 

“ And what of my servant Nicol ? ” I asked, and waited 
breathlessly for the answer. 

“ Oh, he was away on the hills seeking ye. Master Bur¬ 
net. When he got no word Marjory was in sic a terror that 
nothing would suffice her but that he maun off to Tweed- 
dale and seek every heather-buss for word of ye. He hadna 
been gone twae days when half a dozen men, or maybe 
more, came wi’ horse and a’ and a letter frae you yoursel', 
seekin’ the lass. They said that a’ was peaceably settled 
now, and that you had sent them to fetch her to meet you 
at Lanerick. I hadna a thocht but that it was a’ richt and 
neither had the lass, for she was blithe to gang. Next day, 
that was yestreen, here comes your servant Nicol wi’ a face 
as red as a sodger’s coat, and when he finds Marjory gone he 
sits down wi' his heid atween his hands and spak never a 
word to any man. Then aboot the darkening he gets up 
and eats a dinner as though he hadna seen meat for a twaP- 
month. Then off he gangs, and tells na a soul where he was 
gaun.” The old man had lost all his fine bearing and cor- 

261 


262 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

rect speech, and stood by the door shivering with age and 
anxiety. 

I A whirlwind of thoughts passed through my mind. Now 
that the old order was at end, Gilbert’s power had gone with 
it, and he was likely to find it go hard with him soon. There 
was but one refuge for him—in his own lands in the west, 
where, in his great house of Eaglesham or his town dwelling 
in Glasgow, he might find harborage; for the very fact 
that they were in the stronghold of the Whigs made them 
the 'more secure. Thither he must have gone if he had any 
remnant of wit, and thither he had taken my lady. And 
with the thought my whole nature was steeled into one 
fierce resolve to follow him and call him to bitter account. 
My first fit of rage had left me, and a more deadly feeling 
had taken its place. This earth was too narrow a place 
for my cousin and me to live in, and somewhere in these 
Westlands I would meet him and settle accounts once and 
for all. It was not anger I felt, I give you my word. Nay, 
it was a sense of some impelling fate behind driving me for¬ 
ward to meet this man, who had crossed me so often. The 
torments of baffled love and frustrated ambition were all 
sunk in this one irresistible impulse. 

I clambered on my horse once more, and a strange sight 
I must have seemed to the gaping servants and their 
astonished master. 

“ I am off on the quest,” I cried, " but I will give you 
one word of news ere I go. The king has fled the land, and 
the Dutch William goes to the throne.” And I turned and 
galloped down the avenue, leaving a throng of pale faces 
staring after my horse’s tail. 

Once on the road I lashed my animal into a mad gallop. 
Some devil seemed to have possessed me. I had oft thought 
fondly in the past that my nature was not such as the wild 
cavaliers whom I had seen, but more that of the calm and 
reasonable philosopher. Now I laughed bitterly at these 
vain imaginings. For when a man’s heart is stirred to its 
bottom with love or hatred all surface graces are stripped 
from it and the old primeval passions sway him, which 


I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN 


263 

swayed his father before him. But with all my heart I 
felt a new coolness and self-possession. A desperate calm 
held me. In a little all things would be settled, for this 
was the final strife, from which one or other of the com¬ 
batants would never return. 

The dull November eve came on me ere I reached the 
Clyde. Twas no vantage to ford the stream, so I rode 
down the left bank among the damp haughs and great 
sedgy pools. In a little I had come to the awful gorge 
where the water foams over many linns and the roar of the 
place is like the guns of an army. Here I left the stream 
side and struck into the country, whence I returned again 
nearly opposite the town of Lanark, at the broad, shallow 
place in the river, which folk call the Fords o’ Clyde. 

Here there is a clachan of houses jumbled together in a 
crinkle of the hill, where the way from the Ayrshire moors 
to the capital comes down to the bank. Here there was an 
inn, an indifferent place, but quiet and little frequented; 
and since there was little to be got be going farther I re¬ 
solved to pass the night in the house. So I rode down the 
uneven way to where I saw the light brightest, and found 
the hostel by a swinging lamp over the door. So giving 
my horse to a stableman, with many strict injunctions as to 
his treatment, I entered the low doorway and found my 
way to the inn parlour. 

From the place came a great racket of mirth, and as I 
opened the door a glass struck against the top and was 
shivered to pieces. Inside, around the long table, sat a 
round dozen of dragoons making merry after their boisterous 
fashion. One would have guessed little indeed from their 
faces that their occupation was gone, for they birled at the 
wine as if the times were twenty years back and King 
Charles (whom God rest) just come anew to his throne. 

I had never seen the soldiers before, but I made a guess 
that they were disbanded men of my cousin’s company, 
both from their air of exceeding braggadocio which clung 
to all who had any relation to Gilbert Burnet, and also 
since there were no soldiers in this special part of the Clyde 


264 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

dale save his. I was in no temper for such a racket, and 
had there been another room in the house I should have 
sought it ; but the inn was small and little frequented, and 
the accommodation narrow at the best. However, I must 
needs make the most of it, so shutting the door behind I 
sought a retired corner seat. I was still worn with my 
exertions of yesterday and weary with long riding, so I was 
blithe to get my limbs at rest. 

But it was clear that three-fourths of the company were 
in the last state of drunkenness, and since men in liquor 
can never let well alone, they must needs begin to meddle 
with me. 

" Gidden,” said one, " what kind o’ gentleman hae we 
here ? I havena seen sic a fellow sin’ yon steeple-jaick at 
Brochtoun Fair. D’ye think he wad be willin’ to gie us a 
bit entertainment ? ” 

Now you must remember that I still wore my suit of tom 
and dirty crimson, and with my stained face and long hair 
I must have cut a rare figure. 

But had the thing gone no farther than words I should 
never have stirred a finger in the matter, for when a man’s 
energies are all bent upon some great quarrel, he has little 
stomach for lesser bickerings. But now one arose in a 
drunken frolic, staggered over to where I sat, and plucked 
me rudely by the arm. “ Come ower,” he said, “ my man, 
and let’sh see ye dance the ‘ Nancy kilt her Coats.’ You 
see here twelve honest sodgers whae will gie ye a penny a 
piece for the ploy.” 

“ Keep your hands off,” I said brusquely, “ and hold 
your tongue. ’Twill be you that will do the dancing soon 
at the end of a tow on the castle hill, when King William 
plays the fiddle. You’ll be brisker lads then.” 

“ What,” said he in a second, with drunken gravity. 
“ Do I hear you shpeak treason against his majesty King 
James ? Dod, I’ll learn ye better.” And he tugged at his 
sword, but being unable in his present state to draw it 
with comfort, he struck me a hard thwack over the shoulder, 
scabbard and all. 


I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN 265 

In a moment I was ablaze with passion. I flung myself 
on the fellow, and with one buffet sent him rolling below the 
table. Then I was ashamed for myself, for a drunken man 
is no more fit for an honest blow than a babe or a woman. 

But there was no time for shame or aught save action. 
Three men— the only three who were able to understand 
the turn of affairs—rose to their feet in a trice, and with 
drawn swords came towards me. The others sat stupidly 
staring, save two who had fallen asleep and rolled from their 
seats. 

I picked up my chair, which was broad and heavy and 
of excellent stout oak, and held it before me like a shield. 
I received the first man’s awkward lunge full on it, and, 
thrusting it forward, struck him fair above the elbow, while 
his blade fell with a clatter on the floor. Meantime the 
others were attacking me to the best of their power, and 
though they were singly feeble, yet in their very folly they 
were more dangerous than a mettlesome opponent, who 
will keep always in front and observe well the rules of the 
game. Indeed, it might have gone hard with me had not the 
door been flung violently open and the landlord entered, 
wringing his hands and beseeching, and close at his heels 
another man, very tall and thin and dark. At the sight of 
this second my heart gave a great bound and I cried aloud 
in delight. For it was my servant Nicol. 

In less time than it takes to write it we had disarmed the 
drunken ruffians and reduced them to order. And, indeed, 
the task was not a hard one, for they were a vast deal more 
eager to sleep than to fight, and soon sank to their fitting 
places on the floor. Forbye they may have had some gleam 
of sense, and seen how perilous was their conduct in the 
present regiment of affairs. Then Nicol, who was an old 
acquaintance of the host’s, led me to another room in the 
back of the house, where we were left in peace ; and sitting 
by the fire told one another some fragment of our tales. 

And first for his own, for I would speak not a word till 
he had told me all there was to tell. He had had much 
ado to get to Caerdon, for the hills were thick with the 


266 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

military, and at that wild season of the year there is little 
cover. When he found no letter he set off for the hiding- 
place above Scrape, where he knew I had been, and found 
it deserted. Thence he had shaped his way again to Smit- 
wood with infinite labour and told Marjory the fruit of his 
errand. At this her grief had been so excessive that nothing 
would content her but that he must be off again and learn by 
hook or crook some word of my whereabouts. So began 
his wanderings among the hills, often attended with danger 
and always with hardship, but no trace of me could he find. 
At last, somewhere about the Moffat Water, he had for¬ 
gathered with a single tinker whom he had once befriended 
in the old days when he had yet power to help. From this 
man he had learned that the Baillies had with them one 
whom he did not know for certain, but shrewdly guessed as 
the Laird of Barns. With all speed he had set off on this 
new quest and followed me in my journey right to the 
moss of Biggar. Here all signs of the band came to an end, 
for most of the folk of the place knew naught of the airt of 
the gipsy flight, and such as knew were loath to tell, being 
little in a mood to incur the Baillies’ wrath. So naught was 
left for him but to return to the place whence he had started. 
Here he was met with the bitter news that I have already 
set down. He was thrown into a state of utter despon¬ 
dency, and sat for long in a fine confusion of mind. Then 
he fell to reasoning. There was no place whither Gilbert 
could take a woman save his own house of Eaglesham, for 
Dawyck and Barns were too near the hills and myself. 
You must remember that at this time my servant had no 
inkling of the momentous event which had set our positions 
upside down. Now, if they took her to the west they would 
do so with all speed; they had but one day’s start; he 
might yet overtake them, and try if his wits could find no 
way out of the difficulty. 

So off he set and came to this inn of the Clyde fords, and 
then he heard that on the evening before such a cavalcade 
had passed as he sought. But he learned something more 
the next morn ; namely, that my cousin's power was wholly 


I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN 267 

broken and that now I was freed from all suspicion of 
danger. Once more he fell into a confusion, but the one 
thing clear was that he must find me at all costs. He had 
heard of me last at the town of Biggar not fifteen miles off; 
when I heard the great news he guessed that I would ride 
straight for Smitwood ; I would hear the tidings that the 
folk there had to tell, and, if he knew aught of me, I would 
ride straight, as he had done, on the track of the fugitives. 
So he turned back to the inn, and abode there awaiting me, 
and, lo ! at nightfall I had come. 

Then for long we spoke of my own wanderings, and I 
told him many tales of my doings and sufferings up hill and 
down dale, as did Ulysses to the Ithacan swineherd. But 
ere long we fell to discussing that far nore momentous task 
which lay before us. It behoved us to be up and doing, 
for I had a horrid fear at my heart that my cousin might 
seek to reach the western sea coast and escape to France or 
Ireland, and thus sorely hinder my meeting with my love. 
I had no fear but that I should overtake him sooner or 
later, for fate had driven that lesson deep into my heart, 
and to myself I said that it was but a matter of days, or 
weeks, or maybe years, but not of failure. I was for posting 
on even at that late hour, but Nicol would have none of it. 

" Look at your face i’ the gless, sir," said he, “ and tell 
me if ye look like muckle mair ridin’ the day. Ye’re fair 
forwandered wi’ weariness and want o’ sleep. And what 
for wad ye keep thae queer-like claes ? I’ll get ye a new 
suit frae the landlord, decent man, and mak ye mair pre¬ 
sentable for gaun intil the Wast." 

I looked as he bade me in the low mirror, and saw my 
dark face, and wind-tossed hair, and my clothes of flaming 
crimson. Something in the odd contrast struck my fancy. 

“ Nay," I said grimly, " I will bide as I am. I am going 
on a grim errand and I will not lay aside these rags till I 
have done that which I went for to do." 

" Weel, weel, please yersel’," said my servant jauntily, 
and he turned away, whistling and smiling to himself. 


268 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 
CHAPTER II 

AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND 

1 slept like a log till the broad daylight on the next mom 
woke me, and with all speed I got up and dressed. I found 
myself much refreshed in body. My weariness was gone, 
and the dull languor which had oppressed me had given 
place to a singular freshness of spirit. 

When I went below I found my servant ready and waiting, 
with the horses saddled and my meal prepared. The sol¬ 
diers had gone early, paying no score ; for when their liquor 
had left them they had wakened up to the solemn conviction 
that this countryside was not like to be a pleasant habita¬ 
tion for them for many months to come. So they had gone 
off to Heaven knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a 
last token of their affection. 

It was near ten o'clock ere we started, the two of us, on 
our road to the West. I had travelled it many times, for 
it was the way to Glasgow, and I found myself calling up, 
whether I would or no, a thousand half-sad and half-pleasing 
memories. At this place I had stopped to water my horse, 
at this cottage I had halted for an hour, at this hostel I 
had lain the night. Had I not looked at my comrade every 
now and then, I might have fancied that I was still the 
schoolboy, with his wide interest in letters and life, and little 
knowledge of either, with half a dozen letters in his pocket, 
looking forward with fear and hope to town and college. 
Heigh-ho ! Many things had come and gone since then, 
and here was I still the same boy, but ah ! how tossed and 
buffeted and perplexed. Yet I would not have bartered 
my present state for those careless and joyous years, for 
after all this is a rugged world, with God knows how many 
sore straits and devilish temptations, but with so many fair 
and valiant rewards, that a man is a coward indeed who 
would not battle through the one for the sweet sake of the 
other. 

As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery 


AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND 269 

good-humour. His was an adventure-loving mind, and 
there were few things which he would not brave save the 
routine of settled life. Now, as the November sun came out, 
for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with the 
sharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained 
me to his views on the world and the things in it. The 
ground was hard as steel underfoot, the horses’ hooves 
crackled through the little ice-coated pools in the road, and 
a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside wood and 
seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring. 

" What think ye o’ the hills, Laird ? ” said my servant. 
“ Ye’ve been lang among them, and ye’ll ken them noo in 
anither way than if ye had just trampit ower them after 
wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow or Moffatdale. 
I’ve wandered among them since I was a laddie five ’ear 
auld, and used to gang oot wi' my faither to the herdin’. 
And since then I’ve traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, 
and a’ ower the Clydeside and the Annanside, no to speak 
o’ furrin pairts, and I can weel say that I ken naucht sae 
awfu’ and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely, 
and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae 
green hills and muirs.” 

" You speak truly,” said I. “ I’ve seen them in all 
weathers and I know well what you mean.” 

" Ay,” he went on, " thae lawlands are very bonny, wi’ 
the laigh meadows, and bosky trees and waters as still as a 
mill-pound. And if ye come doun frae the high bare lands 
ye think them fair like heev’n. But I canna bide lang 
there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o’ moss and heather, 
and the roarin’ and routin’ o’ the burn, and the air sae clear 
and snell that it gars your face prick and your legs and 
airms strauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to 
the Heads o’ Ayr.” 

“ I know all of that,” said I, “ and more.” 

“ Ay, there’s far mair,” said he. “ There’s the sleepin’ 
at nicht on the grund wi’ naething abune you but the stars, 
and waukin’ i’ the momin’ wi’ the birds singin’ i’ your lug 
and the wind blawin’ cool and free around you. I ken a’ 


270 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds low on the 
tap o’ the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the 
snaw comes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore 
it, and there’s life neither for man nor beast. Yet wi’ 
it a’ I like it, and if I micht choose the place I wad like best 
to dee in, it would be in the lee side o’ a muckle hill, wi' nae 
death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to gang straucht to 
my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. But wha 
kens ? ” and he spurred up his horse. 

" Nicol,” said I, after a long silence, “ you know the 
errand we go on. I have told you it, I think. It is to find 
my cousin and Mistress Marjory. If God grant that we 
do so, then these are my orders. You shall take the lady 
home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave 
me behind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, 
all will be well. If I do not, you know your duty. You 
have already fulfilled it for some little time ; if it happens 
as I say, you shall continue it to death. The lass will have 
no other protector than yourself.” 

" E’en as ye say,” cried he, resuming his hilarity, though 
whether it was real or no I cannot tell. " But dinna crack 
aboot siccan things, Laird, or ye’ll be makkin' our journey 
nae better than buryin’. It’s a wanchancy thing to speak 
aboot death. No that a man should be feared at it, but 
that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind 
the story o’ auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam 
was deein’, and as he was a guid auld man the minister, 
whae was great at death-beds and consolation, cam to speak 
to him aboot his latter end. ' Ye’re near death, Tammas,’ 
says he. Up gets auld Tam. ' I’ll thank ye no to mention 
that subject,’ he says, and never a word wad he allow the 
puir man to speak.” 

So in this way we talked till we came to where the road 
leaves the Clyde valley and rises steep to the high land 
about the town of Hamilton. Here we alighted for dinner 
at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship of War, though 
what this means in a town many miles from the sea I do 
not know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which 


AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND 271 

we did not tarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere 
nightfall, and at that season of the year the day closes early. 

As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure 
to look about me. The town was in a ferment, for, as near 
the field of Bothwell Brig, where the Whigs had suffered 
their chiefest slaughter, it had been well garrisoned with 
soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange’s landing 
put the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager 
faces hurried past with wonder writ large on their cheeks; 
others stood about in knots talking shrilly ; and every now 
and then a horseman would push his way through the crowd 
bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it thence 
to the West country. 

Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which 
brought me to a standstill. It was that of a man, dark, 
sullen, and foreign-looking, whose former dragoon’s dress 
a countryman’s coat poorly concealed. He was pushing 
his way eagerly thrpugh the crowd, when he looked into the 
mid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived 
into one of the narrow closes and was lost to sight. 

At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of 
Gilbert’s, Jan Hamman, the Hollander, whom already 
thrice I had met, once in the Alphen Road, once at the 
joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at the caves 
of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty’s servants went 
to their account. What he was about in this West country 
I could not think, for had he been wise he would have made 
for the eastern sea coast or at least not ventured into this 
stronghold of those he had persecuted. And with the 
thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his 
commander ? was he not the victim of one of my fair 
cousin’s many infamies ? had he not, in my own hearing, 
sworn vengeance ? Gilbert had more foes than one on his 
track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, dogging 
him in his flight. The thought flashed upon me that he 
of all men would know my cousin’s plans and would aid 
me in my search. I did not for a moment desire him for an 
ally in my work ; nay, I should first frustrate his designs. 


272 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in the 
highest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle 
in matters which belonged solely to our house. Still, I 
should use him for my own ends, come what might. 

I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge 
of it, and dashed up the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse 
of a figure vanishing round the far corner, and when I had 
picked my way, stumbling over countless obstacles, I found 
at the end an open court, roughly paved with cobblestones, 
and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made a 
great leap and caught the top, and lo ! I looked over into a 
narrow lane wherein children were playing. It was clear 
that my man had gone by this road, and would now be 
mixed among the folk in the side street. It was useless to 
follow farther, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps, 
banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck. 

I remounted, making no answer to my servant's sarcastic 
condolences—for, of course, he had no knowledge of this 
fellow’s purport in coming to the Westlands, and could 
only look on my conduct as a whimsical freak. As we 
passed down the street I kept a shrewd lookout to right and 
left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luck 
visited me. Once out of the town it behoved us to make 
better speed, for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk 
at this time of year fell sharp and sudden. So with a great 
jingling and bravado we clattered through the little ham¬ 
lets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just at the 
darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, 
saving that it has no college or abbey, is a more bustling and 
prosperous place than Glasgow itself. But here we did 
not stay, being eager to win to our journey’s end ; so after 
a glass of wine at an inn we took the path through the now 
dusky meadows by Clyde side, and passing through the 
village of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, 
we crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as 
they were on the point of closing. 

During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again 
in mind all the details of the doings of past weeks. All 


AH OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND 273 

seemed now clear, and with great heartiness I cursed my¬ 
self for errors, which I could scarce have refrained from. 
The steps in Gilbert’s plan lay before me one by one. The 
letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he 
must have taken weeks to discover. When at last it had 
been made clear to him, something else had engaged his 
mind. He must have had word from private sources, shut 
to the country folk, of the way whither events were trending 
in the state. His mind was made up ; he would make one 
desperate bid for success ; and thus he shaped his course. 
He sent men to Smitwood with the plausible story which 
I had already heard from my servant, how all breach was 
healed between us, and how this was her escort to take her 
to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men show 
her as proof some letter forged in my name on the model 
of the one I had lost on Caerdon, and also give her some 
slight hint of the great change in the country to convince 
her that now he could do no ill even had he desired it, and 
that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor lass, 
wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise 
Nicol at hand to give better counsel, had suffered herself 
to be persuaded, and left the house with a glad heart. I 
pictured her disillusion, her bitter regrets, her unwilling 
flight. And then I swore with redoubled vehemence that 
it should not be for long. 

We alighted for the night at the house of that Mistress 
Macmillan, where I lodged when I first came to college. 
She welcomed us heartily, and prepared us a noble supper, 
for we were hungry as hawks, and I, for one, tired with 
many rough adventures. The house stood in the great 
Gallow Gate, near the salt market and the college gardens ; 
and as I lay down on the fresh sheets and heard the many 
noises of the street with the ripple of the river filling the 
pauses, I thanked God that at last I had come out of 
beggary and outlawry to decent habitation. 


274 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 


CHAPTER III 

THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES 

The next mom the weather had changed. When I looked 
forth through the latticed panes to the street, it was a bleak 
scene that met my eyes—near a foot of snow, flakes tossing 
and whirling everywhere, and the roofs and gables showing 
leaden dull in the gloom. Had I been in another frame of 
mind I should have lost my spirits, for nothing so dis¬ 
heartened me as heavy, dismal weather. But now I was 
in such a temper that I welcomed the outlook ; the grey, 
lifeless street was akin to my heart, and I went down from 
my chamber with the iron of resolution in my soul. 

My first care was to inquire at Mistress Macmillan if she 
knew aught of my cousin’s doings, for the town-house of 
the Eaglesham Bumets was not two streets distant. But 
she could give me no news, for, said she, since the old laird 
died and these troublous times succeeded, it was little that 
the young master came near the place. So without any 
delay I and my servant went out into the wintry day, and 
found our way to the old, dark dwelling in the High Street. 

The house had been built near a hundred years before, 
in the time of Ephraim Burnet, my cousin’s grandfather. I 
mind it well to this day, and oft as I think of the city, that 
dreary, ancient pile rises to fill my vision. The three 
Burnet leaves, the escutcheon of our family, hung over the 
doorway. Every window was little and well-barred with 
iron, nor was any sign of life to be seen behind the dreary 
panes. But the most notable things to the eye were the 
odd crow-step gables, which, I knew not from what cause, 
were all chipped and defaced, and had a strange pied appear¬ 
ance against the darker roof. It faced the street, and down 
one side ran a little lane. Behind were many lesser build¬ 
ings around the courtyard, and the back opened into a wynd 
which ran westward to the city walls. 

I went up the steps and with my sword-hilt thundered 


THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES 275 

on the door. The blows roused the echoes of the old place. 
Within I heard the resonance of corridor and room, all 
hollow and empty. Below me was the snowy street, with 
now and then a single passer, and I felt an eerie awe of this 
strange house, as of one who should seek to force a vault of 
the dead. 

Again I knocked, and this time it brought me an answer. 
I heard feet—slow, shuffling feet, coming from some room, 
and ascending the staircase to the hall. The place was so 
void that the slightest sound rang loud and clear, and I 
could mark the progress of the steps from their beginning. 
Somewhere they came to a halt, as if the person were con¬ 
sidering whether or not to come to the door, but by and by 
they advanced, and with vast creaking a key was fitted 
into the lock and the great oak door was opened a little. 

It was a little old woman who stood in the opening, with 
a face seamed and wrinkled, and not a tooth in her head. 
She wore a mutch, which gave her a most witch-like appear¬ 
ance, and her narrow, grey eyes, as they fastened on me and 
sought out my errand, did not reassure me. 

“ What d’ye want here the day, sir ? ” she said in a high, 
squeaking voice. “ It’s cauld, cauld weather, and my 
banes are auld and I canna stand here bidin' your pleesur." 

“ Is your master within ? ”T said shortly. “ Take me 
to him, for I have business with him." 

“ Maister, quotha ! " she screamed. “ Wha d’ye speak 
o’, young sir ? If it’s the auld laird ye mean, he’s lang 
syne wi’ his Makker, and the young yin has no been here 
thae fower years. He was a tenty bit lad, was Maister 
Gilbert, but he gaed aff to the wars i’ the abroad and ne’er 
thinks o’ returnin’. Wae’s me for the puir, hapless cheil." 
And she crooned on to herself in the garrulity of old age. 

“ Tell me the truth," said I, “ and have done with your 
lies. It is well known that your master came here in the 
last two days with two men and a lady, and abode here for 
the night. Tell me instantly if he is still here or whither 
has he gone." 

She looked at me with a twinkle of shrewdness and then 


276 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

shook her head once more. " Na, na, I’m no leein*. I'm 
ower neer my accoont wi' the Lord to burden my soul wi’ 
lees. When you tae are faun i' the hinner end o’ life, ye’ll 
no think it worth your while to mak up leesome stories. I 
tell ye the young maister hasna been here for years, though 
it’s blithe I wad be to see him. If ye winna believe my 
word, ye can e’en gang your ways.” 

Now I was in something of a quandary. The woman 
looked to be speaking the truth, and it was possible that my 
cousin could have left the city on one side and pushed 
straight on to his house of Eaglesham or even to the remoter 
western coast. Yet the way was a long one, and I saw 
not how he could have refrained from halting at Glasgow 
in the even. He had no cause to fear my following him 
there more than another place. For that I would come 
post-haste to the Westlands at the first word he must have 
well known, and so he could have no reason in covering 
his tracks from me. He was over-well known a figure in 
his own countryside to make secrecy possible ; his aim 
must be to outrace me in speed, not to outwit me with 
cunning. 

“ Let me gang, young sir,” the old hag was groaning. 
“ I’ve the rheumaticks i’ my banes and I’m sair hadden 
doon wi’ the chills, and I’ll get my death if I stand here 
longer.” 

“ I will trust you then,” said I, “ but since I am a kins¬ 
man of your master’s and have ridden far on a bootless 
errand, I will even come in and refresh myself ere I return.” 

“ Na, na,” she said, a new look, one of anxiety and cun¬ 
ning coming into her face, “ ye maun na dae that. It was 
the last word my maister bade me ere he gaed awa*. * Els- 
peth,’ says he, ‘ see ye let nane intil the hoose till I come 
back.’ ” 

“ Tut, tut, I am his own cousin. I will enter if I please,” 
and calling my servant, I made to force an admittance. 

Then suddenly, ere I knew, the great door was slammed 
in my face, and I could hear the sound of a key turning and 
a bar being dropped. 


THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES 277 

Here was a pretty to-do. Without doubt there was that 
in the house which the crone desired to keep from my notice. 
I sprang to the door and thundered on it like a madman, 
wrestling with the lock, and calling for the woman to open 
it. But all in vain, and after a few seconds’ bootless 
endeavour, I turned ruefully to my servant. 

“ Can aught be done ? ” I asked. 

“ I saw a dyke as we cam here,” said Nicol, “and ower the 
back o't was a yaird. There was likewise a gate i' the 
dyke. I’m thinkin’ that’ll be the back door o’ the hoose. 
If ye were awfu' determined, Laird, ye micht win in there.” 

I thought for a moment. “ You are right,” I cried. “I 
know the place. But we will first go back and fetch the 
horses, for it is like there will be wild work before us ere 
night.” 

But lo and behold ! when we went to the inn stable my 
horse was off. “ I thocht he needit a shoe,” said the ostler, 
“ so I just sent him doun to Jock Walkinshaw’s i’ the East 
Port. If ye’ll bide a wee. I’ll send a laddie doun to bring 
him up.” 

Five, twenty, sixty minutes and more we waited while 
that accursed child brought my horse. Then he came back 
a little after midday ; three shoes had been needed, he said, 
and he had rin a’ the way, and he wasna to blame. So I 
gave him a crown and a sound box on the ears, and then 
the two of us set off. 

The place was high and difficult of access, being in a 
narrow lane where few passers ever went, and nigh to the 
city wall. I bade Nicol hold the horses, and standing on 
the back of one I could just come to within a few feet of the 
top. I did my utmost by springing upward to grasp the 
parapet, but all in vain, so in a miserable state of disap¬ 
pointed hopes I desisted and consulted with my servant. 
Together we tried the door, but it was of massive wood, 
clamped with iron, and triply bolted. There was nothing 
for it but to send off to Mistress Macmillan and seek some 
contrivance. Had the day not been so wild and the lane 
so quiet we could scarce have gone unnoticed. As it was. 


278 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

one man passed, a hawker in a little cart, seeking a near 
way, and with little time to stare at the two solitary horse¬ 
men waiting by the wall. 

Nicol went off alone, while I kept guard—an aimless 
guard—by the gate. In a little he returned with an old 
boat-kook, with the cleek at the end somewhat unusually 
long. Then he proposed his method. I should stand on 
horseback as before, and hang the hook on the flat surface 
of the wall. When, by dint of scraping, I had fixed it 
firmly, I should climb it hand over hand, as a sailor mounts 
a rope, and with a few pulls I might hope to be at the 
summit. 

I did as he bade, and, with great labour, fixed the hook 
in the hard stone. Then I pulled myself up, very slowly 
and carefully, with the shaft quivering in my hands. I 
was just gripping the stone when the wretched iron slipped 
and rattled down to the ground, cutting me sharply in the 
wrist. Luckily I did not go with it, for in the moment of 
falling, I had grasped the top and hung there with aching 
hands and the blood from the cut trickling down my arm. 
Then, with a mighty effort, I swung myself up and stood 
safe on the top. 

Below me was a sloping roof of wood which ended in a 
sheer wall of maybe twelve feet. Below that in turn was the 
great yard, flagged with stone, but now hidden under a 
cloak of snow. Around it were stables, empty of horses, 
windy, cold, and dismal. I cannot tell how the whole place 
depressed me. I felt as though I were descending into some 
pit of the dead. 

Staunching the blood from my wrist—by good luck my 
left—as best I might with my kerchief, I slipped down the 
white roof and dropped into the court. It was a wide, 
empty place, and, in the late afternoon, looked grey and 
fearsome. The dead black house behind, with its many 
windows all shuttered and lifeless, shadowed the place like 
a pall. At my back was the back door of the house, like 
the other locked and iron-clamped. I seemed to myself 
to have done little good by my escapade in coming thither. 


UP HILL AND DOWN DALE 


279 


Wandering aimlessly, I entered the stables, scarce think¬ 
ing what I was doing. Something about the place made 
me stop and look. I rubbed my eyes and wondered 
There, sure enough, were signs of horses having been re¬ 
cently here. Fresh hay and a few oats were in the mangers, 
and straw and dung in the stalls clearly proclaimed that 
not long agone the place had been tenanted. 

I rushed out into the yard, and ran hither and thither 
searching the ground. There were hoof-marks—fool that 
I was not to have marked them before—leading clearly 
from the stable door to the gate on the High Street. I 
rushed to the iron doors and tugged at them. To my 
amazement I found that they yielded, and I was staring 
into the darkening street. 

So the birds had been there and flown in our brief absence. 
I cursed my ill-fortune with a bitter heart. 

Suddenly I saw something dark lying amid the snow. I 
picked it up and laid it tenderly in my bosom. For it was 
a little knot of blue velvet ribbon, such as my lady wore. 


CHAPTER IV 

UP HILL AND DOWN DALE 

I rushed up the street, leaving the gates swinging wide 
behind me, and down the lane to where Nicol waited. In 
brief, panting words I told him my tale. He heard it with¬ 
out a movement, save to turn his horse’s head up the street. 
I swung myself into the saddle, and, with no more delay, 
we made for our lodgings. 

“ There is but one thing that we may do,” said I. " The 
night is an ill one, but if it is ill for us 'tis ill for them.” And 
at the words I groaned, for I thought of my poor Marjory 
in the storm and cold. 

At Mistress Macmillan's I paid the lawing, and having 
eaten a hearty meal, we crammed some food into our saddle- 


280 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

bags and bade the hostess good-bye. Then we turned 
straight for the west port of the city. 

It was as I had expected. The gates were just at the 
closing when the twain of us rode up to them and were 
suffered to pass. The man looked curiously at my strange 
dress, but made no remark, as is the fashion of these taci¬ 
turn Westland folk, and together we rode through and into 
the bleak night. The snow had ceased to fall early in the 
day, but now it came on again in little intermittent drift¬ 
ings, while a keen wind whistled from the hills of the north. 
The land was more or less strange to me, and even my ser¬ 
vant, who had a passing acquaintance with many country¬ 
sides, professed himself ignorant. It was the way to the 
wild highlands—the county of Campbells and Lennoxes— 
and far distant from kindly Christian folk. I could not 
think why my cousin had chosen this path, save for the 
reason of its difficulty and obscurity. I was still in doubt 
of his purpose, whether he was bound for his own house of 
Eaglesham or for the more distant Clyde coast. He had 
clearly gone by this gate from the city, for this much had we 
learned from the man at the port. Now, if he sought 
Eaglesham, he must needs cross the river, which would 
give us some time to gain on his track. But if he still held 
to the north, then there was naught for it but to follow 
him hot-foot and come up with him by God's grace and our 
horses’ speed. 

I have been abroad on many dark nights, but never have 
I seen one so black as this. The path to the west ran 
straight from our feet to the rugged hills which dip down 
to the river edge some ten miles off. But of it we could 
make nothing, nor was there anything to tell us of its pres¬ 
ence save that our horses stumbled when we strayed from 
it to the moory land on either side. All about us were the 
wilds, for the town of Glasgow stood on the last bounds of 
settled country, near to the fierce mountains and black mo¬ 
rasses of the Highlandmen. The wind crooned and blew in 
gusts over the white waste, driving little flakes of snow about 
us, and cutting us to the bone with its bitter cold. Some- 


UP HILL AND DOWN DALE 


281 


where in the unknown distances we heard strange sounds— 
the awesome rumble of water or the cry of forlorn birds. 
All was as bleak as death, and, in the thick darkness, what 
might otherwise have seemed simple and homelike, was 
filled with vague terrors. I had shaped no path—all that I 
sought was to hasten somewhere nearer those we followed, 
and on this mad quest we stumbled blindly forward. 

When we had gone some half-dozen miles a light shone 
out from the wayside, and we descried a house. It was a 
little, low dwelling, with many sheds at the rear : clearly a 
smithy or a humble farm. My servant leaped down and 
knocked. The door was opened, a warm stream of light 
lay across the snowy road. I had a glimpse within, and there 
was a cheerful kitchen with a fire of logs crackling. A man 
sat by the hearth, shaping something or other with a knife, 
and around him two children were playing. The woman 
who came to us was buxom and comely, one who delighted 
in her children and her home. The whole place gave me a 
sharp feeling of envy and regret. Even these folk, poor 
peasants, had the joys of comfort and peace, while I, so 
long an outlaw and a wanderer, must still wander hopeless 
seeking the lost, cumbered about with a thousand dangers. 

“ Did any riders pass by the road to-day ? ” I asked. 

“ Ay, four passed on horses about midday or maybe a wee 
thing after it, twae stoot fellows, and a braw-clad gentleman 
and a bonny young leddy. They didna stop but gaedby 
at a great rate.” 

“ What was the lady like ? ” I asked breathlessly. 

” Oh, a bit young thing, snod and genty-like. But I 
mind she looked gey dowie and I think she had been greetin. 
But wherefore d’ye speir, sir ? And what are ye daein’ oot 
hereaways on siccan a nicht ? Ye best come in and bide 
till momin\ We’ve an orra bed i’ the house for the maister, 
and plenty o’ guid saft straw i’ the barn for the man.” 

“ Did they go straight on ? ” I cried, “ and whither does 
this way lead ? ” 

" They went straight on,” said she, “ and the road is the 
road to the toun o’ Dumbarton.” And she would have told 


282 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

me more, but with a hasty word of thanks, I cut her short, 
and once more we were off into the night. 

From this place our way and the incidents thereof are 
scarce clear in my memory. For one thing the many toils 
of the preceding time began at last to tell upon me, and I 
grew sore and wearied. Also a heavy drowsiness oppressed 
me, and even in that cold I could have slept on my horse’s 
back. We were still on the path, and the rhythmical jog 
of the motion served to lull me, till, as befell every now and 
then, there came a rut or a tussock, and I was brought to 
my senses with a sharp shock. Nicol rode silently at my 
side, a great figure in the gloom, bent low, as was always 
his custom, over his horse’s neck. In one way the state 
was more pleasing than the last, for the turmoil of cares in 
my heart was quieted for the moment by the bodily fatigue. 
I roused myself at times to think of my purpose and get me 
energy for my task, but the dull languor would not be 
exorcised, and I always fell back again into my sloth. 
Nevertheless we kept a fair pace, for we had given the rein 
to our animals, and they were fresh and well-fed. 

Suddenly, ere I knew, the way began to change from a 
level road into a steep hill-path. Even in the blackness I 
could see a great hillside rising steeply to right and left. I 
pulled up my horse, for here there would be need of careful 
guidance, and was going on as before when Nicol halted me 
with his voice. 

“ Laird, Laird,” he cried, “ I dinna ken muckle aboot 
the Dumbarton road, but there’s yae thing I ken weel and 
that is that it keeps i’ the laigh land near the waterside a’ 
the way, and doesna straiggle ower brae-faces.” 

This roused me to myself. “ Did we pass any cross¬ 
road ? ” I asked, " for God knows the night is dark enough 
for any man to wander. Are you sure of what you say ? ” 

“ As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and my een 
fair dazed wi’ sleep,” said he. 

“ Then there is naught for it but to go back and trust 
to overtaking the path. But stay, are these not the hills 
of Kilpatrick, which stretch down from the Lennox to the 


UP HILL AND DOWN DALE 


283 

Clyde and front the river at this very Dumbarton ? I have 
surely heard of such. Our highway must he to our left, 
since we clearly have turned to the right, seeing that if we 
had turned to the left we should have reached the water. 
If then we strike straight from here along the bottom of 
this slope, will we not reach the town ? The chances are 
that we should never find our path, whereas this way will 
bring us there without fail, if we can stomach some rough 
riding.” 

“ Weel, sir, I’m wi’ ye wherever ye like to gang. And I’ll 
no deny but that it’s the maist reasonable road to tak, if 
ye’re no feared o’ breakin' your craig ower a stane or walkin’ 
intil a peat-bog. But we maun e’en lippen to Providence 
and tak our chance like better men.” 

So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path and rode 
as best we could along the rough bottom of the hills. It 
was a tract of rushy ground where many streams ran. Huge 
boulders, tumbled down from the steeps, strewed it like 
the leaves of a hazel wood in autumn. On one hand the 
land lay back to the haughlands and ordered fields, on the 
other it sloped steeply to the hills. Stumps of birk-trees 
and stray gnarled trunks came at times, but in general the 
ground was open and not unsuited for horses in the fight of 
day. Now it was something more than difficult, for we 
came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my servant’s 
prophecy. Once, I remember, I floundered fair into a trench 
of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom, where I verily 
believe both horse and man would have perished, had not 
Nicol, who saw my misfortune and leaped his beast across, 
pulled me fiercely from my saddle to the bank, and the 
twain of us together extricated the horse. In this fashion, 
floundering and slipping, we must have ridden some half- 
dozen miles. All drowsiness had vanished with the rough 
and ready mode of travel. Once more the thought of my 
lady and her plight, of my wrongs and my misfortunes, tor¬ 
mented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped yet more 
firmly my errand on my soul. 

Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an end in 


284 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

our progress. Before us lay a little ravine, clogged with 
snow, in whose bottom a burn roared. It was a water of 
little size, and, in summer weather, one might all but have 
leaped it. Now the snow had swollen it to the semblance 
of a torrent, and it chafed and eddied in the little gorge, a 
streak of dark, angry water against the dim white banks. 
There was nothing for it but to enter and struggle across, 
and yet, as I looked at the ugly swirl, I hesitated. I was 
nigh numbed with cold, my horse was aching from its 
stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing bank. 
I turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth shaking with the 
bitter weather. 

“ There is naught for it,” said I, " but to risk it. There 
is no use in following it, for we shall find no better place 
in a ravine like this.” 

Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge, and 
I saw horse and man slip off the snowy bank into the foam. 
I followed so closely that I lost all sight of them. To this 
day I remember the feelings of the moment, the choking as 
an icy wave surged over my mouth, the frantic pulling at 
the bridle-rein, the wild plunging of my horse, the roar of 
water and the splash of swimming. Then, with a mighty 
effort, my brave animal was struggling up the farther side, 
where my servant was already shaking the water from his 
clothes. 

This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly 
added to my bodily discomfort. An icy wind shivering 
through dripping garments may well chill the blood of the 
stoutest. And for certain the next part of the way is 
burned on my memory with a thousand recollections of 
utter weariness and misery. Even my hardy servant could 
scarce keep from groaning, and I, who was ever of a ten¬ 
derer make, could have leaned my head on my horse’s neck 
and sobbed with pure feebleness. 

The country was now rough with tanglewood, for we 
were near the last spur of the hills, ere they break down on 
the river. Somewhere through the gloom lights were shin¬ 
ing and moving, as I guessed from a ship on the water. 


UP HILL AND DOWN DALE 


285 

Beyond were still others, few in number, but fixed as if from 
dwelling-houses. Here at last, I thought, is the town of 
Dumbarton which I am seeking, and fired with the hope we 
urged on the more our jaded beasts. 

But lo ! when we came to it, ’twas but a wayside inn in 
a little clachan, where one solitary lamp swung and cast a 
bar of light over the snowy street. I hammered at the 
door till I brought down the landlord, shivering in his night¬ 
dress. It might be that my cousin had halted here, so I asked 
the man if he had any travellers within. 

“ Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca pack¬ 
man, unless your honour is cornin' to keep them company.” 

“ Has any one passed then ? ” I cried. 

" How could I tell when I’ve been sleepin’ i’ my bed 
thae sax ’oor ? ” he coughed, and, seeing we were no sojour¬ 
ners, slammed the door in our face. 

We were numb and wretched, but there was naught for 
it but to ride on farther to the town. It could not be far, 
and there were signs of morn already in the air. The cold 
grew more intense and the thick pall of darkness lifted some¬ 
what towards the east. The blurred woods and clogged 
fields at our side gradually came into view, and as, heart¬ 
sick and nigh fordone with want of sleep, we rounded the 
great barrier-ridge of hill, an array of twinkling lights sprang 
up in front and told us that we were not far from our jour¬ 
ney’s end. Nevertheless, it was still dark when we rode 
into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first 
hostelry. 

Now, both the one and the other were too far gone with 
weariness to do more than drop helplessly from the horses 
and stagger into the inn parlour. They gave us brandy, 
and then led us to a sleeping-room, where we lay down like 
logs and dropped into a profound slumber. 

When we awoke the morning was well advanced. I was 
roused by Nicol, who was ever the more wakeful, and with¬ 
out more delay we went down and recruited our exhausted 
strength with a meal. Then I summoned the landlord, and 
asked, more from habit than from any clear expectation, 
whether any travellers had lodged over night. 


286 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

The man answered shortly that there had been a gentle¬ 
man and a maid, with two serving-men, who had but lately 
left. 

In a great haste I seized on my hat and called loudly for 
the horses. " Where did they go ? ” I said ; “ by what 
way ? Quick, tell me.” 

“ They took the road doun to the ferry,” said he, in great 
amazement. “ It’s no an ’oor since they gaed.” 

Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed from 
the house. 


CHAPTER V 

EAGLESHAM 

It was dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw setting 
in on the surface of the snow. Down the narrow, crooked 
streets, with a wind shivering in our teeth, we went at a 
breakneck gallop. I lashed my horse for its life, and the 
poor brute, wearied as it was. by the toils of the night, an¬ 
swered gallantly to my call. Sometimes, in a steep place, 
we slipped for yards ; often I was within an ace of death ; 
and at one street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came 
down, though the next minute he was up again. A few 
sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes and stared from their 
windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a sailor 
looked at us wonderingly. 

In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the water- 
edge. Here there is a rough quay, with something of a 
harbour behind it, where lie the sugar-boats from the Indies, 
when the flood-tide is too low to suffer them to go up stream 
to the city. Here, also, the ferry four times daily crosses 
the river. 

Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that strange, 
dead colour which comes from the falling of much snow. 
Heavy waves were beginning to roll over the jetty, and a 
mist was drooping lower and ever lower. Two men stood 
by an old anchor coiling some rope. We pulled up our 


EAGLESHAM 287 

horses and I cried out in impatience where the ferry might 
be. 

" Gone ten meenutes syne,” said one, with no change on 
his stolid face. “ There she is gin ye hae een i’ your heid 
to see.” 

And he pointed out to the waste of waters. I looked 
and saw a sail rising and sinking in the trough of the waves. 

" When does she return ? ” I cried out, with many curses 
on our laggard journey. 

“ Whiles in an ’oor, whiles in twae. She’ll be twae the 
day ere she’s back, for the ferryman, Jock Gellatly, is a 
fou’ as the Baltic wi’ some drink that a young gentleman 
gave him.” 

So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all the 
regrets of unsuccess. 

The man had said two hours, but it was nearer three ere 
that wretched shell returned, and, when it came, ’twas with 
a drunken man who could scarce stagger ashore. I was in 
no mood for trifling. 

" Here, you drunken swine,” I cried, " will you take us 
across and be quick about it ? ” 

f 1 ' I maun hae anither gless o' Duncan's whusky,” said the 
fellow, with a leer. 

" By God, and you will not,” I cried. " Get aboard and 
make no more delay, or, by the Lord, I’ll throw you into 
the stream.” 

The man hiccuped and whined. " I canna, I canna, my 
bonny lad. I had ower muckle guid yill afore I sterted, 
and I maun hae some whusky to keep it doon. I’m an auld 
man, and the cauld air frae the water is bad for the inside. 
Let me be, let me be,” and he lay down on the quay with the 
utter helplessness of a sot. 

<f Here is a devil of a mess,” I cried to Nicol. “ What 
is to be done ? ” 

" I’ll hae to tak the boat mysel', Laird,” said my servant 
quietly. " If I droon ye, dinna complain.” 

Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at anything 
which would carry me farther on my quest. With some 


288 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

difficulty we got the horses aboard and penned them in the 
stalls. Then Nicol hoisted the sail, and we shoved off, 
while I kept those at bay with a boat-hook who sought to 
stop us. Once out on the stormy waters I was beset with 
a thousand fears. I have ever feared the sea, and now, as 
we leaped and dived among the billows, and as the wind 
scoured us like a threshing-floor, and, above all, as the crazy 
boat now almost lay sideways on the water, I felt a dreadful 
sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better than 
immediate death. It was clear that Nicol, who knew some¬ 
thing of seamanship as he knew of most things, had a hard 
task to keep us straight, and by his set face and white lips 
I guessed that he, too, was not without his fears. Neverthe¬ 
less, the passage was narrow, and in less time than I had 
expected, we saw a dim line of sand through the fog. Run¬ 
ning in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses 
splashing to shore. 

The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with a few 
huts facing the river. Beyond the land seemed still flat, 
though, as far as the mist suffered me to see, there seemed 
to be something of a rise to the right. My feet and hands 
were numbed with cold, and the wound in my wrist, which 
I got scaling the wall, smarted till it brought the water to 
my eyes. I was so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and 
Nicol was in no better plight. 

We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the 
folk had gone who landed with the last ferry. The woman 
answered gruffly that she had seen none land, and cared 
not. At the next house I fared little better; but at the 
third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver 
piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about 
three hours ago. “ And what lies beyond the moor ? ” I 
asked. " Beyond the muir,” said he, “ is a muckle hill 
they ca' Mistilaw, a’ thick wi’ bogs, and ayont it there are 
mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye’ll come to 
Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid lands begin. 
I yince was ower there wi’ my faither, aboot a cowt, and a 
braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways.” 


EAGLESHAM 


289 

So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, 
rode into the black heath where there was no road. The 
snow had lost all hardness and was thick and clogging to 
our horses’ feet. We made as good speed as we could, but 
that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the 
first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping 
over the shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial con¬ 
trasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves 
its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where at all seasons 
mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and all through the 
afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We 
halted at a solitary shepherd’s hut among the wilds, and 
ate a vile meal of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we 
set forth, and, in the darkening, came to the wide moor 
which is the last guard of the wastes and borders the 
pleasant vale of the Cart. 

Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision. It was clear 
that Gilbert and Marjory were but a little way off in the 
House of Eaglesham, and I had almost reached the end of 
my travels. But here my plans came to a sudden end. 
Was I to ride forward and boldly demand my cousin to let 
her go ? I knew my cousin’s temper ; he could make but 
one reply, and at last some end would be placed to our feud. 
But with this came another thought. Gilbert was not a 
man of one device but of many. If I sought to wrest my lady 
from his hands 'oy force, it was most likely that he would be 
the winner. For he was ever ripe for high, bold and das¬ 
tardly policies, and at such a time was little likely to be 
punctilious. 

So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol, and 
between us we devised a plan. I liked it so well that I lost 
all dismal forebodings and proceeded to put it in action. 
Night fell just as we came to the meadows above the village, 
and the twinkling lights of the place served as our guides. 
There was an inn there which I remembered of old time, for 
the innkeeper had come originally from Tweeddale. At 
first I would shun the place, but then I remembered that 
the man was dead these half-dozen years, and all the place 


2Q0 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

so changed that I-was secure from recognition, even had I 
not been so disguised and clad. So without any fear we 
rode up to the door and sought admittance. 

The place was roomy and wide ; a clean-swept floor, with 
a fire blazing on the hearth, and a goodly smell of cooked 
meat everywhere. They brought us a meal, which we ate 
like hungry men who had been a long day's journey in a 
snow-bound world. Then I lay back and stared at the fire¬ 
light, and tried hard to fix my mind on the things which 
were coming to pass. I found it hard to determine whether 
I was asleep or awake, for the events of the past hours were 
still mere phantasmagoria in my memory. Through all 
the bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and scrupu¬ 
losity of motive, there was still that one clear thought 
branded on my mind. And now, as I sat there, the thought 
was alone, without any clear perspective of the actors or 
the drama to be played. I scarce thought of Marjory, and 
Gilbert was little in my mind, for the long series of cares 
which had been mine for so many days had gone far to 
blunt my vision, and drive me to look farther than the next 
moment or the next hour. I was dull, blank, deadened 
with this one unalterable intention firm in my heart, but, 
God knows, little besides. 

About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant roused 
me and bade me get ready. He had ordered the landlord 
to have the horses round to the door, giving I know not 
what excuse. I mounted without a thought, save that the 
air was raw and ugly. We rode down the silent street out 
on to the heath, where the snow was deeper, and our steps 
all but noiseless. The night was clear and deadly chill, 
piercing to the marrow. A low snow-fog clothed the ground, 
and not a sound could we hear in that great, wide world, 
save our own breathing and our horses’ tread. A sort of 
awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn thoughts 
that I advanced. 

In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into the 
valley of the stream, entered a wood of pines. Snow pow¬ 
dered us from the bare boughs, and a dead branch crackled 




EAGLESHAM 


291 


underfoot. Then all of a sudden, black and cold and still, 
from the stream-side meadows and all girt with dark forest, 
rose the house. Through the tree trunks it looked ghostly 
as a place of the dead. Then I remembered that this was 
the hill-front, where no habitable rooms were ; so, marvel¬ 
ling no more at the dearth of light, we turned sharp to the 
left and came on the side looking to the river. 

Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the basement., 
and one in the low, first story. I cast my memory back 
over old days. One was from the sitting-parlour where the 
old Gilbert Burnet had chosen to spend his days, and the 
other—ah, I had it, ’twas from the sleeping-room of the old 
Mistress Burnet, where she had dragged out her last years 
and drawn her last breath. But for these there was no 
other sign of life in the house. 

We crossed the snowy slope to the black shadow of the 
wall, where we halted and consulted. By this time some 
life and spirit had come back to my movements, and I held 
myself more resolutely. Now I gave my servant his orders. 
“ If so happen we get Mistress Marjory safe,” said I, “ you 
will ride off with her without delay, down the valley to the 
Clyde and then straight towards Tweeddale. You will get 
fresh horses at Hamilton, and till then these will serve your 
purpose. Once in her own countryside there remains 
nothing for you save to see that you do her bidding in every¬ 
thing. If God so will it, I will not be long in returning to 
you.” 

Then, with no more words, we [set our faces to our 
task. 

The light in the window above us still shone out on the 
white ground. Many yards to our left another patch of 
brightness marked where the other lamp burned. There 
was need of caution and stillness, else the master of the place 
would hear. I kicked my shoes from my feet, though it 
was bitter cold, and set myself to the scaling the wall. 
The distance was little, scarce twenty feet, and the masonry 
was rough-hewn and full of projecting stones, yet I found 
the matter as hard as I could manage. For my hands were 


2Q2 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

numbed with the excessive chill, and the cut in my wrist 
still ached like the devil. I was like to swoon twenty times 
ere I reached the corner of the window. With a sob of 
exhaustion I drew myself up and stared at the curtained 
window. 

Very gently I tapped on the pane, once, twice, three 
times. I heard a quick movement of surprise within, then 
silence once more, as if the occupant of the room thought 
it only the snow drifting. Again I rapped, this time with 
a sharp knock, which men use who wait long outside a gate 
in a windy night. Now there could be no doubt of the 
matter. A hand drew the curtains aside, and a timid little 
face peered out. Then of a sudden the whole folds were 
swept back and my lady stood before me. 

She wore her riding-dress still, but a shawl of some white 
stuff was flung around her shoulders. There she stood 
before my sight, peering forth into the darkness, with sur¬ 
prise, fright, love, joy chasing one another across her face, 
her dear eyes sad and tearful, and her mouth drawn as with 
much sorrow, and her light hair tossed loosely over her 
shoulders. It was many lone and dismal months since I 
had seen her, months filled with terrors and alarums, and 
heart-sickening despair. And now, as she was almost 
within my reach at last after so many days, my heart gave a 
great bound, and with one leap the burden of the past shook 
itself from my shoulders. 

“ Open the window, dear,” I cried, and with trembling 
hands she undid the fastenings and swung the lattice open. 
The next moment I had her in my arms, and felt her heart 
beating close to mine, and the soft, warm touch of her neck. 
" Marjory lass,” I cried, “ how I have missed you, dear ! 
But now I have you and shall never leave you more.” And 
I drew her closer to me, while she could only sob the more. 

Then, with a mighty effort, I recalled myself to the 
immediate enterprise. The sound of the horses shuffling 
the snow without forced on me the need of action. 

“ My servant is without with horses,” I said. “ You 
must go with him, dear. It is our only safety. By to- 


EAGLESHAM 


293 

morrow you will be in Tweeddale, and in a very little while 
I will come to you.” 

“ But do you not go just now ? ” she cried, in anxiety, 
still clinging to me. 

“No, Marjory dear,” said I, soothing her as best I could, 
“ I cannot come yet. There are some things which need 
my special care. If you think yourself, you will see that.” 

“ Is it aught to do with Gilbert Burnet ? Oh, I dare not 
leave you with him. Come with me, John, oh, come. I 
dare not, I dare not.” And the poor child fell to wringing 
her hands. 

“ Marjory,” I said, “ if you love me do as I bid you. I 
will come to no scaith. I promise you I will be with you at 
Dawyck ere the week is out.” 

So she put a brave face on the matter, though her lips 
still quivered. I went to the window and looked down to 
where Nicol stood waiting with the horses. Then I thought 
of a plan, and, finding none better, I cried to him to mount 
to the window-sill, for I knew his prowess as a climber, and 
the uncommon toughness of his arm. The horses were too 
jaded and spiritless to need any watching. 

I caught up my lady in my arms and stepped out upon 
the ledge. Then very carefully and painfully I lowered 
myself, still clinging to the sill, till I found a foothold in a 
projecting stone. Below us were Nicol’s arms and into 
them I gave my burden. I heard him clambering down by 
degrees, and in a very little, for the height was small, he had 
reached the ground. Then I followed him, slipping the last 
few feet, and burying myself in a bank of snow. 

I had brought a heap of warm furs from the room, and 
these I flung round my love’s shoulders. My heart ached 
to think of her, weary from the day’s hard riding, setting 
forth again into the cold of a November night. 

“ Oh, John,” she said, “ no sooner met than parted. It 
is ever our fate.” 

“ It will be the last time, dear,” I said, and I kissed her 
face in her hood. 

Then, with many injunctions to my servant, I bade them 


294 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

good-bye, and watched the figure which I loved best in all 
the world disappear into the darkness. With a sad and 
yet cheerful heart I turned back and clambered again into 
the chamber. 

There were Marjory’s things scattered about, as of one 
who has come from a long journey. Something on a table 
caught my eye, and, taking it up, I saw it was a slip of 
withered heather. Then I minded how I had given it her 
one summer long ago on the Hill of Scrape. 

I kicked off my boots, and in utter weariness of body and 
mind, I flung myself on the bed and was soon asleep. 


CHAPTER VI 

I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET 

I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have 
drowned care in bodily exertion. It was scarce light when 
I awoke, and, with the opening of the eyes, there came with 
a rush the consciousness of my errand. I leaped out of 
bed, and sitting on the edge considered my further actions. 

First I sought to remove from my person some of the 
more glaring stains of travel. There was water in the room, 
bitter cold and all but frozen, and with it I laved my face 
and hands. 

Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into 
one of the long corridors. The house was still, though 
somewhere in the far distance I could hear the bustle of 
servants. I cast my mind back many years, and strove to 
remember where was the room where the morning meal 
was served. I descended the staircase to the broad, high 
hall, but still there were no signs of other occupants. One 
door I tried, but it was locked ; another, with no better 
fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then I perceived 
one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in. Break¬ 
fast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. 
I entered and closed the door behind me. 


I MAKE PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET 295 

There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, 
I caught a glimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, 
I could have laughed aloud at the sight. My hair unkempt, 
my face tanned to the deepest brown, my strange scarlet 
clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gave 
me a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of 
myself. And then this humour passed, and all the suffer¬ 
ings of the past, the hate, the despairing love, the anxious 
care came back upon me in a flood, and I felt that such garb 
was fitting for such a place and such a season. 

I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The min¬ 
utes dragged slowly, while no sound came save the bickering 
of the fire and the solemn ticking of a clock. I had not a 
shade of fear or perturbation. Never in all my life had my 
mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the coming of 
my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of 
a gate, quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose. 

At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps 
on the stair. Clearly my cousin had slept long after his 
exertions. Nearer they came, and I heard his voice giving 
some orders to the servants. Then the door was opened, 
and he came in. 

At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from 
the time of our last meeting. He was grown much thinner 
and gaunter in countenance, nor was his dress so well cared 
for and trim as I remembered him. The high, masterful 
look which his face always wore had deepened into some¬ 
thing bitter and savage, as if he had grown half sick of the 
world and cared naught for the things which had aforetime 
delighted him. His habit of scorn for all which opposed 
him, and all which was beneath him, had grown on him 
with his years and power, and given him that look as of one 
born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and 
pain were less than nothing. As I looked on him I hated 
him deeply and fiercely, and yet I admired him more than 
I could bear to think, and gloried that he was of our family. 
For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. I am not 
little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only 


296 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

in stature that he had the pre-eminence, for his step was as 
light and his eye as keen as a master of fence. 

He had expected a very different figure to greet him at 
the other side of the table. In place of a lissom maid he 
saw a grim, rough-clad man waiting on him with death in 
his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even a momentary spasm 
of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly, then 
with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face 
grew hard as stone. 

“ Good morning to you, Master John Burnet,” said he. 
“ I am overjoyed to see you again. I had hoped to have 
had a meeting with you in the past months among your own 
hills of Tweedside, but the chance was denied me. But 
better late than never. I bid you welcome.” 

I bowed. “ I thank you,” I said. 

“ I have another guest,” said he, “ whom you know. It 
is a fortunate chance that you should both be present. This 
old house of Eaglesham has not held so many folk for many 
a long day. May I ask when you arrived ? ” The man 
spoke all the while with great effort, and his eyes searched 
my face as though he would wrest from me my inmost 
thoughts. 

“ An end to this fooling, Gilbert,” I said quietly. “ Mar¬ 
jory Veitch is no more in this house ; with the escort of my 
servant she is on her road to Tweeddale. By this time she 
will be more than half-way there.” 

He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly 
inflaming with passion. 

“You, you-” he cried, but no words could come. He 

could only stutter and gape, with murder staring from his 
visage. 

As for me the passion in him roused in me a far greater. 

“ Yes/' I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce knew it 
for mine. “You villain, liar, deceiver, murderer, by the 
living God, the time has now come for your deserts. You 
tortured my love and harassed her with hateful captivity ; 
you slew her brother, your friend, slew him in his cups like 
the coward you are ; you drove me from my house and 


I MAKE PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET 297 

lands ; you made me crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, 
and hunted me with your hell-hounds ; you lied and killed 
and tortured, but now I am free, and now you will find that 
I am your master. I have longed for this day, oh, for so 
long, and now you shall not escape me. Gilbert Burnet, 
this earth is wide, but it is not wide enough for you and me 
to live together. One or other of us shall never go from 
this place." 

He made no answer but only looked me straight in the 
face, with a look from which the rage died by degrees. Then 
he spoke slowly and measuredly. “ I think you are right. 
Cousin John," said he, “ the world is too small for both of us. 
We must come to a settlement." And in his tone there 
was a spice of pity and regret. Then I knew that I had lied, 
and that this man was stronger than I. 

For a little we stood looking across the table at each other. 
There was an extraordinary attraction in the man, and 
before the power of his keen eyes I felt my wits trembling. 
Then, with his hand, he motioned me to sit down. “ The 
morning air is raw, Cousin John. It will be better to finish 
our meal," and he called to his servant to bring in break¬ 
fast. 

I have never eaten food in my life under stranger circum¬ 
stances. Yet I did not fear aught, but satisfied my hunger 
with much readiness. As for him, he toyed and ate little. 
Once I caught him looking over at me with a shade of 
anxiety, of dread in his gaze. No word passed between us, 
for both alike felt the time too momentous for any light talk. 
As the minutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his 
manner. His brows grew heavier and he appeared to brood 
over the past, while his glance sought the pictures on the 
walls, and my face in turn, with something of fierceness. 
When all was over he rose and courteously made way for 
me to pass, holding the door wide as I went out. Then he 
led me to a little room at the other side of the hall, whence 
a window opened to the garden. 

"You wish to be satisfied," he said, "and I grant you 
that the wish is just. There are some matters Twixt me 


298 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and thee that need clearing. But, first, by your leave, I 
have something to say. You believe me guilty of many 
crimes, and I fling the charge in your teeth. But one thing 
I did unwittingly and have often repented of. Michael 
Veitch fell by his own folly and by no fault of mine.” 

“ Let that be,” said I ; “ I have heard another tale.” 

“ 1 have said my say ; your belief matters naught to me. 
One thing I ask you. Where has the girl Marjory gone ? 
If fate decides against you, it is but right I should have her.” 

“ Nay,” I cried passionately, “ that you never shall. 
You have caused her enough grief already. She hates the 
sight of you even as I, and I will do nothing to make her 
fall into your hands.” 

“It matters little,” he said, with a shrug of his great 
shoulders. “ It was only a trifling civility which I sought 
from you. Let us get to work.” 

From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he always 
used in any serious affray, single-edged and basket-hilted. 
Then he signed to me to follow, and opened the window 
and stepped out. 

The morning was murky and damp. Fog clothed the 
trees and fields, and a smell of rottenness hung in the air. I 
shivered, for my clothes were thin and old. 

Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind him. 
First we crossed the sodden lawn, and then entered the pine 
wood, which I had skirted on the night before. 

In a little we heard the roaring of water and came to the 
banks of the stream, which, swollen by the melting snows, 
was raving wildly between the barriers of the banks. At 
the edge was a piece of short turf, some hundred yards 
square, and drier than the rest of the ground which we had 
traversed. Here Gilbert stopped and bade me get ready. 
I had little to do save cast my coat, and stand stripped and 
shivering, waiting while my enemy took his ground. 

The next I know is that I was in the thick of a deadly 
encounter, with blows rattling on my blade as thick as hail. 
My cousin’s eyes glared into mine, mad with anger and 
regret, with all the unrequited love and aimless scheming 


I MAKE PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET 299 

of months concentrated in one fiery passion. I put forth 
my best skill, but it was all I could do to keep death from 
me. As it was I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, 
and there was a great hole in my shirt which the other’s 
blade had ripped. The sweat began to trickle over my 
eyes with the exertion, and my sight was half dazed by the 
rapid play. 

Now it so happened that I had my back to the stream. 
This was the cause of my opponent’s sudden violence, for 
he sought to drive me backwards, that, when I found myself 
near the water, I might grow bewildered. But I had been 
brought up to this very trick, for in the old days in Tweed- 
dale, Tam Todd would have taken his stand near the Tweed 
and striven to force me back into the great pool. In my 
present danger these old memories came back to me in a 
flood, and in a second I was calm again. This, after all, 
was only what I had done a thousand times for sport. Could 
I not do it once for grim earnest ? 

In a very little I saw that my cousin’s policy of putting 
all his strength out at the commencement was like to be 
his ruin. He was not a man built for long endurance, being 
too full in blood and heavy of body. Soon his breath came 
thick and painfully ; he yielded a step, then another, and 
still a third ; his thrusts lacked force, and his guards were 
feeble. He had changed even from that tough antagonist 
whom I had aforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle 
to the utmost. Had it not been that my anger still held 
my heart, and admitted no room for other thoughts, I would 
even have felt some compunction in thrusting at him. But 
now I had no pity in me. A terrible desire to do to him 
as he had done to my friends gripped me like a man’s hand. 
The excitement of the struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to 
my own life, roused my dormant hate into a storm of fury. 
I know not what I did, but shrieking curses and anathemas, 
I slashed blindly before me like a man killing bees. Before 
my sword point I saw his face growing greyer and greyer 
with each passing minute. He was a brave man, this I 
have always said for him ; and if any other in a like position. 


300 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

with an enemy at his throat and the awful cognizance of 
guilt, still keeps his stand and does not flee, him also I call 
brave. 

Suddenly his defence ceased. His arm seemed to numb 
and his blade was lowered. I checked my cut, and waited 
with raised point. An awful delight was in my heart, 
which now I hate and shudder to think on. I waited, 
torturing him. He tried to speak, but his mouth was 
parched and I heard the rattle of his tongue. Still I de¬ 
layed, for all my heat seemed turned into deadly malice. 

Then his eyes left my face and looked over my shoulders. 
I saw a new shade of terror enter them. I chuckled, for 
now, thought I, my revenge has come. Of a sudden he 
crouched with a quick movement, bringing his hands to his 
face. I was in the act of striking, when from behind came 
a crack, and something whistled past my ear. Then I saw 
my cousin fall, groaning, with a bullet through his neck. 

In a trice my rage was turned from him to the unknown 
enemy behind. With that one shot all rancour had gone 
from my heart. I turned, and there, running through the 
trees up the river bank, I saw a man. At the first look I 
recognized him, though he was bent wellnigh double, and 
the air was thick with fog. It was the fellow Jan Hamman. 

I ran after him at top speed, though he was many yards 
ahead of me. I have never felt such lightness in my limbs. 
I tore through thicket and bramble, and leaped the brooks 
as easily as if I were not spent with fighting and weak from 
the toils of months. My whole being was concentrated 
into one fierce attempt, for a thousand complex passions 
were tearing at my heart. This man had dared to come 
between us; this man had dared to slay one of my house. 
No sound escaped my lips, but silently, swiftly, I sped after 
the fleeing figure. 

He ran straight up stream, and at every step I gained. 
Somewhere at the beginning he dropped his pistol; soon 
he cast away his cap and cloak ; and when already he heard 
my hot breathing behind him he cried out in despair and 
flung his belt aside. We were climbing a higher ridge 


I MAKE PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET 301 

beneath which ran the stream. I was so near that I clutched 
at him once and twice, but each time he eluded me. Soon 
we gained the top, and I half stumbled while he gained a 
yard. Then I gathered myself together for a great effort. 
In three paces I was on him, and had him by the hair ; but 
my clutch was uncertain with my faintness, and, with a 
wrench, he was free. Before I knew his purpose he swerved 
quickly to the side, and leaped clean over the cliff into the 
churning torrent below. 

I stood giddy on the edge, looking down. There was 
nothing but a foam of yellow and white and brown from 
bank to bank. No man could live in such a stream. I 
turned and hastened back to my cousin. 

I found him lying as I had left him, with his head bent 
over to the side and the blood oozing from his neck-wound. 
When I came near he raised his eyes and saw me. A gleam 
of something came into them; it may have been mere 
recognition, but I thought it pleasure. 

I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than kindness. 
The sight of him lying so helpless and still drove all anger 
from me. He was my cousin, one of my own family, and, 
with it all, a gentleman and a soldier. 

He spoke very hoarsely and small. 

“ I am done for, John. My ill-doing has come back on 
my own head. That man-” 

“ Yes,” I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man so near 
his end with idle confessions, “ I know, I have heard, but 
that is all past and done with.” 

“ God forgive me,” he said, “ I did him a wrong, but I 
have repaid it. Did you kill him, John ? ” 

“No,” I said ; “he leaped from a steep into the stream. 
He will be no more heard of.” 

“ Ah,” and his breath came painfully, “ it is well. Yet 1 
could have wished that one of the family had done the work. 
But it is no time to think of such things. I am going fast, 
John.” 

Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back with a 
whitening face. 



302 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I crave 
your forgiveness.” 

“ You have mine with all my heart,” I said hastily. 
“ But there is the forgiveness of a greater, which we all need 
alike. You would do well to seek it.” 

He spoke nothing for a little. “ I have lived a headstrong, 
evil life,” said he, “ which God forgive. Yet it is not meet 
to go canting to your end, when in your health you have 
crossed His will.” 

Once again there was silence for a little space. Then he 
reached out his hand for mine. 

“ I have been a fool all my days. Let us think no more 
of the lass, John. We are men of the same house, who 
should have lived in friendship. It was a small thing to 
come between us.” 

A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill rain 
A gust swept past us and carried my cast-off cloak into the 
bushes. “ Ease my head,” he gasped, and when I hasted 
to do it, I was even forestalled. For another at that mo¬ 
ment laid His hand on him, and with a little shudder his 
spirit passed to the great and only judge of man’s heart. 

I walked off for help with all speed, and my thoughts 
were sober and melancholy. Shame had taken me for my 
passion and my hot fit of revenge ; ay, and pity and kind¬ 
ness for my dead opponent. The old days when we played 
together by Tweed, a thousand faint, fragrant memories 
came back to me, and in this light the last shades of bitter¬ 
ness disappeared. Also the great truth came home to me as 
I went, how little the happiness of man hangs on gifts and 
graces, and how there is naught in the world so great as the 
plain virtue of honour and heart. 

CHAPTER VII 

OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE 

Of the events of the time following there is little need to 
give an exact account. There was some law business to 


OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE 


303 


be gone through in connection with my cousin's death and 
the disposing of the estate, which went to an East country 
laird, a Whig of the Whigs, and one like to make good and 
provident use of it. Then, when I would have returned to 
Tweeddale, I received a post from my good kinsman, Dr. 
Gilbert Burnet, which led me first to Edinburgh and then so 
far afield as London itself. For it was necessary, in the 
great confusion of affairs, that I should set myself right 
with the law and gain some reparation for my sometime 
forfeited lands. 

So to the great city I went, posting by the main road 
from Edinburgh, and seeing a hundred things which were 
new and entertaining. I abode there most all the winter, 
during the months of December, January, February, and 
March, for there was much to do and see. My lodging was 
in my kinsman’s house near the village of Kensington, and 
there I met a great concourse of remarkable folk whose 
names I had heard of and have heard of since. Notably, 
there were Master John Dry den, the excellent poet, my 
Lord Sandwich, and a very brisk, pleasing gentleman, one 
Mr. Pepys, of the Admiralty. I had great opportunity of 
gratifying my taste for books and learned society, for my 
kinsman’s library was an excellent one, and his cellars so 
good that they attracted all conditions of folk to his house. 
Also I had many chances of meeting with gentlemen of like 
degree with myself, and many entertaining diversions we 
had together. Nor did I neglect those in Tweeddale, for J 
sent news by near every post that went to the North. 

But when the spring came, and there was no further need 
for tarrying in the South, with a light heart I set off home¬ 
wards once more. I journeyed by Peterborough and York 
in the company of one Sir C. Cotterell, a gentleman of 
Northumberland, and abode two days at his house in the 
moors, where there was excellent fishing. Then I came 
northwards by the great Northumberland road by the 
towns of Newcastle and Morpeth, and crossed the Cheviot 
hills, which minded me much of my own glen. At Cold¬ 
stream I crossed the Tweed, which is there grown a very 


304 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

broad, noble river, and then rode with all speed over the 
Lammermoors to Edinburgh. I stayed there no longer 
than my duty demanded; and when all was settled, one 
bright spring day, just after midday, set out for Barns. 

The day, I remember, was one of surprising brightness, 
clear, sunshiny, and soft as midsummer. There are few 
ways I know better than that from the capital to my home 
—the bare, windy moorlands for one half, and the green 
glens and pleasant waters of the other. It was by this road 
that I had come to Leith to ship for Holland ; by this road 
that I had ridden on that wild night to Dawyck. Each 
spot of the wayside was imprinted on my memory, and now 
that my wanderings were over, and I was returning to peace 
and quiet, all things were invested with a new delight. Yet 
my pleasure was not of the brisk, boisterous order, for 
my many misfortunes had made me a graver man, and 
chastened my natural spirits to a mellow and abiding 
cheerfulness. 

At Leadburn was the inn where I had first met my ser¬ 
vant Nicol, my trusty comrade through so many varying 
fates. I drank a glass of wine at the place for no other 
cause than a sentimental remembrance. The old landlord 
was still there, and the idle ostlers hung around the stable 
doors, as when I had passed before. Down in the bog- 
meadow the marsh-marigolds were beginning to open, and 
the lambs from the hillside bleated about their mothers. 
The blue, shell-like sky overhead arched without a cloud to 
the green, distant hills. 

When I came to the place on the Tweedside road, called 
the Mount Bog, I dismounted and lay down on the grass. 
For there the view opens to the hills of my own countryside. 
A great barrier of blue, seamed with glens, all scarred in 
spots with rock and shingle, lifting serene brows from the 
little ridges to the wide expanse of the heavens. I named 
them one by one from east to west—Minchmoor, though 
it was hidden from sight, where fled the great Montrose after 
the fatal rout of Philiphaugh ; the broad foreheads of the 
Glenrath heights above my own vale of Manor, Dollar Law, 


OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE 


305 


Scrape, the Drummelzier fells, the rugged Wormel, and, 
fronting me, the great Caerdon, with snow still lining its 
crannies. Beyond, still farther and fainter lines of mountain, 
till like a great tableland the monstrous mass of the Broad 
Law barred the distance. It was all so calm and fragrant, 
with not a sound on the ear but the plash of lit tie streams 
and the boom of nesting snipe. And above all there was the 
thought that now all peril had gone, and I was free to live as 
I listed and enjoy life as a man is born to do, and skulk no 
more at dyke-sides, and be torn no longer by hopeless 
passion. 

When I rode through the village of Broughton and came 
to the turn of the hill at Dreva, the sun was already wester¬ 
ing. The goodly valley, all golden with evening light, lay 
beneath me. Tweed was one belt of pure brightness, flash¬ 
ing and shimmering by its silver shores and green, mossy 
banks. Every wood waved and sparkled in a fairy glow, 
and the hills above caught the radiance on their broad 
bosoms. I have never seen such a sight, and for me at that 
hour it seemed the presage of my home-coming. I have 
rarely felt a more serene enjoyment, for it put me at peace 
with all the earth, and gilded even the nightmare of the 
past with a remembered romance. To crown it there was 
that melodious concert of birds, which one may hear only 
on such a night in this sweet time o’ year. Throstles and 
linnets and the shriller mountain larks sang in the setting 
daylight, till I felt like some prince in an eastern tale 
who has found the talisman and opened the portals of the 
Golden Land. 

Down the long, winding hill-path I rode, watching the 
shadows flit before me, and thinking strange thoughts. 
Fronting me over the broad belt of woodland, I saw the 
grey towers of Dawyck, and the green avenues of grass 
running straight to the hill. 

By and by the road took me under the trees, among the 
cool shades and the smell of pine and budding leaves. 
There was a great cooning of wood-doves, and the sighing of 
the tenderest breezes. Shafts of light still crept among the 


306 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

trunks, but the soft darkness of spring was almost at hand. 
My heart wits filled with a great exaltation. The shadow 
of the past seemed to slip from me like an old garment. 

Suddenly I stopped, for somewhere I heard a faint melody, 
the voice of a girl singing. ’Twas that voice I would know 
among ten thousand, the only one in all the world for me. 
I pulled up my horse and listened as the notes grew clearer, 
and this was what she sang: 

44 First shall the heavens want starry light, 

The seas be robbed of their waves ; 

The day want sun, the sun want bright, 

The night want shade, and dead men graves J 
The April, flowers and leaf and tree, 

Before I false my faith to thee, 

To thee, to thee." 

There came a pause, and then again in the fragrant 
gloaming, the air went on : 

44 First shall the tops of highest hills 
By humble plains be overpry’d; 

And poets scorn the Muses’ quills, 

And fish forsake the water-glide; 

And Iris lose her colour’d weed 
Before I fail thee at thy need.” 

I stood in shadow and watched her as she came in sight* 
sauntering up the little green glade, with a basket of spring 
flowers swinging on her arm. Her hat of white satin hung 
loose over her hair, and as she walked lightly, now in the 
twilight, now in a sudden shaft of the western sun, she 
looked fairer than aught I had ever seen. Once more she 
sang with her clear voice : 

44 First direful Hate shall turn to Peace, 

And Love relent in deep disdain ; 

And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, 

And Envy pity every pain ; 

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile, 

Before I talk of any guile." 

But now the darkness had come in good earnest, and I 
could scarce see the singer. “ First Time shall stay/' the 
voice went on : 


OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE 


307 


** First Time shall stay his stayless race, 

And Winter bless his brows with corn; 

And snow bemoisten July’s face, 

And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn.’* 

Here the verse stopped short, for I stepped out and stood 
before her. 

“ Oh, you have come back,” she cried. " At last, and I 
have looked so long for you.” 

“ Indeed, dear lass, I have come back, and by God’s 
grace to go no more away.” 

Then leading my horse, I walked by her side down the 
broad path to the house. We spoke nothing, our hearts 
being too busy with the delights of each other’s presence. 
The crowning stone was added to my palace of joy, and in 
that moment it seemed as if earth could contain no more of 
happiness, and that all the sorrows of the past were well 
worth encountering for the ecstasy of the present. To be 
once more in my own land, with my own solemn hills looking 
down upon me, and that fair river wandering by wood and 
heather, and my lady at my side, was not that sufficient 
for any man ? The purple, airy dark, odorous with spring 
scents, clung around us, and in the pauses of silence the 
place was so still that our ears heard naught save the draw¬ 
ing of our breath. 

At the lawn of Dawyck I stopped and took her hands in 
mine. 

“ Marjory,” I said, " once, many years ago, you sang 
me a verse and made me a promise. I cannot tell how 
bravely you have fulfilled it. You have endured all my 
hardships, and borne me company where I bade you, and 
now all is done with and we are returned to peace and our 
own place. Now it is my turn for troth-plighting, and I 
give you it with all my heart. God bless you, my own deal 
maid.” And I repeated softly: 

“ First shall the heavens want starry light. 

The seas be robbed of their waves ; 

The day want sun, the sun want bright, 

The night want shade, and dead men graves j 
The April, flowers and leaf and tree, 

Before I false my faith to thee.” 


30 8 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

And I kissed her and bade farewell, with the echo still 
ringing in my ears, “ to thee, to thee.” 

I rode through the great shadows of the wood, scarce 
needing to pick my path in a place my horse knew so well, 
for once again I was on Maisie. The stillness clung to me 
like a garment, and out of it, from high up on the hillside, 
came a bird’s note, clear, tremulous, like a bell. Then the 
trees ceased, and I was out on the shorn, green banks, 
’neath which the river gleamed and rustled. Then, all of 
a sudden, I had rounded the turn of the hill, and there, be¬ 
fore me in the dimness, stood the old grey tower, which was 
mine and had been my fathers’ since the first man tilled a 
field in the dale. I crossed the little bridge with a throbbing 
heart, and lo ! there was the smell of lilac and gean-tree 
blossom as of old coming in great gusts from the lawn. 
Then all was confusion and much hurrying about and a 
thousand kindly greetings. But in especial I remember 
Tam Todd, the placid, the imperturbable, who clung to my 
hand, and sobbed like the veriest child, “ Oh, Laird, ye’ve 
been lang o’ cornin’.” 

CHAPTER VIII 

HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE 
ELSEWHERE 

Now, at last, I am come to the end of my tale, and have 
little more to set down. It was on a very fresh, sweet May 
morning, that Marjory and I were married in the old Kirk 
of Lyne, which stands high on a knoll above the Lyne Water, 
with green hills huddled around the door. There was a 
great concourse of people, for half the countryside dwelled 
on our land. Likewise, when all was done, there was the 
greatest feast spread in Barns that living man had ever 
seen. The common folk dined without on tables laid on 
the green, while within the walls the gentry from far and 
near drank long life and health to us till sober reason fled 
hot-foot and the hilarity grew high. But in a little all was 


NICOL SEEKS HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE 309 

over, the last guest had clambered heavily on his horse and 
ridden away, and we were left alone. 

The evening, I remember, was one riot of golden light and 
rich shadow. The sweet-scented air stole into the room with 
promise of the fragrant out-of-doors, and together we went 
out to the lawn and thence down by the trees to the brink 
of Tweed, and along by the great pool and the water- 
meadows. The glitter of that brave, romantic stream 
came on my sight, as a sound of old music comes on the 
ears, bringing a thousand half-sad, half-joyful memories. 
All that life held of fair was in it—the rattle and clash of 
arms, the valour of men, the loveliness of women, the glories 
of art and song, the wonders of the great mother earth, and 
the re-creations of the years. And as we walked together, 
I and my dear lady, in that soft twilight in the green world, 
a peace, a delight, a settled hope grew upon us, and we went 
in silence, speaking no word the one to the other. By and 
by we passed through the gearden where the early lilies 
stood in white battalions, and entered the dining-hall. 

A band of light lay on the east wall where hung the por¬ 
traits of my folk. One was a woman, tall and comely 
habited in a grey satin gown of antique fashion. 

“ Who was she ? ” Marjory asked softly. 

“ She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a noble 
lady and a good. God rest her soul.” 

“And who is he who stands so firmly and keeps hand on 
sword ? ” 

“ That was my father’s brother who stood last at Philip- 
haugh, when the Great Marquis was overthrown. And he 
with the curled moustaches was his father, my grand¬ 
father, of whom you will yet hear in the countryside. And 
beyond still is his father, the one with the pale, grave face, 
and solemn eyes. He died next his king at the rout of 
Flodden. God rest them all; they were honest gentle¬ 
men.” 

Then there was silence for a space, while the light faded, 
and the old, stately dames looked down at us from their 
frames with an air, as it seemed to me, all but kindly, as if 


310 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

they laughed to see us playing in the old comedy which 
they had played themselves. 

I turned to her, with whom I had borne so many perils. 

“ Dear heart,” I said, “ you are the best and fairest of 
them all. These old men and women lived in other times, 
when life was easy and little like our perplexed and difficult 
years. Nevertheless, the virtue of old times is the same as 
for us, and if a man take but the world as he find it, and set 
himself manfully to it with good heart and brave spirit, 
he will find the way grow straight under his feet. Heaven 
bless you, dear, for now we are comrades together on the 
road, to cheer each other when the feet grow weary.” 

On the morning of the third day from the time I have 
written of, I was surprised by seeing my servant, Nicol, 
coming into my study with a grave face, as if he had some 
weighty matter to tell. Since I had come home, I purposed 
to keep him always with me, to accompany me in sport and 
see to many things on the land, which none could do better 
than he. Now he sought an audience with a half-timid, 
bashful look, and, when I bade him be seated, he flicked 
his boots uneasily with his hat and looked askance. 

“ I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir,” at length he said 
slowly. 

I sprang up in genuine alarm. 

“ What nonsense is this ? ” I cried. " You know fine, 
Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long 
together.” 

“ I maun gang,” he repeated sadly ; " I’m loath to dae’t, 
but there’s nae help for ’t.” 

” But what ? ” I cried. “ Have I not been a good friend 
to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils ? Is there 
anything I can do more for you ? Tell me, and I will do it.” 

" Na, na, Maister John, ye’ve aye been the best o’ mas¬ 
ters. I've a’ thing I could wish; dinna think I’m no 
gratefu’.” 

“ Then for Heaven’s sake tell me the reason, man. I 
never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol.” 


NICOL SEEKS HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE 311 

“ Oh, sir, can ye no see ? ” the honest fellow cried with 
tears in his eyes. “ Ye’ve been sae lang wi’ me, that I 
thocht ye kenned my natur’. Fechtin’ and warstlin’ and 
roamin’ aboot the warld are the very breath o’ life to me. 
I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld 
hoose o’ Barns lookin’ like itsel’ again. And I thinks to 
mysel’, * Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is 
no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye've nae mair busi¬ 
ness here than a craw among throstles.’ And the thocht 
maks me dowie, for I canna get by’t. I whiles think o’ 
mysel’ bidin’ quiet here and gettin’ aulder and aulder, till 
the time passes when I’m still brisk and venturesome, and 
I’m left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa’, 
Laird, I carena whither. We a’ made different, and I was 
aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame 
me.” 

I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He 
heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him 
with ingratitude, for I knew how little the charge was 
founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this 
man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to 
see him beside me at Bams, an unceasing reminder of my 
stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thou¬ 
sand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to 
the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind- 
beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted 
them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such 
hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me. 

“ But where would you go ? ” I asked. 

“ I kenna yet,” he said. " But there’s aye things for a 
man like me somewhere on the earth. I’m thinkin’ o’ 
gaun back to the abroad, whaur there's like to be a steer 
for some time to come. It’s the life I want and no guid- 
fortine or bad fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust 
I may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee.” 

There was nothing left for it but to agree, and agree I 
did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets. I gave 
him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered him a sum of 


312 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

money. This he would have none of, but took, instead, a 
pair of little old pistols which had been my father’s. 

I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, 
but years after I heard of him, and that in the oddest way. 
I corresponded to some little extent with folk in the Low 
Countries, and in especial with one Master Ebenezer van 
Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in con¬ 
verse. It was at the time when there was much fighting 
between the French and the Dutch, and one morn I re¬ 
ceived a letter from this Master van Gliecken, written from 
some place whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Hol¬ 
land town in the south. He wrote of many things—of 
some points in Latin scholarship, of the vexatious and most 
unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded 
with this which I transcribe. . . . “ Lastly, my dear Master 
John, I will tell you a tale which, as it concerns the glory 
of your countrymen, you may think worth hearing. As 
you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the 
centre of a most bloody strife, for the French forces have 
assaulted it on all sides, and though by God’s grace they 
have failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore afflic¬ 
tions. In particular there was a fierce attack made upon 
the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on foot. 
On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the 
gate of the comer tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccess¬ 
ful, our men being all but enclosed and some of the enemy 
succeeding in entering the gate. One man in particular, a 
Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet byname, with two 
others who were both slain, made his way to the battle¬ 
ments. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death 
was certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, 
for springing on the summit of the wall, he dared all to 
attack him. When the defenders pressed on he laid about 
him so sturdily that three fell under his sword. 

“ Then when he could no longer make resistance, and 
bullets were pattering around him like hail, and his cheek 
was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit seemed to rise 
the higher. For, shouting out taunts to his opponents, he 


NICOL SEEKS HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE 313 

broke into a song, keeping time all the while with the 
thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting 
with his blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and 
joining his hands above his head, dived sheer and straight 
into the river, and, swimming easily, reached the French 
lines. At the sight those of his own side cheered, and even 
our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from 
joining. 

“ Touching the editions which you desired, I have given 
orders to the bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send 
them to you. I shall be glad, indeed, to give you my poor 
advice on the difficult matters you speak of, if you will do 
me the return favour of reading through my excursus to 
Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this 
I send you a copy. 

“ As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may 
mention for your satisfaction that in person he was tall and 
thin, with black hair, and the most bronzed skin I have 
ever seen on a man. . . .” 

When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled 
with tears, and for myself I would speak to no one on that 
day. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE END OF ALL THINGS 

I AM writing the last words of this tale in my house of Bams 
after many years have come and gone since the things I 
wrote of. I am now no more young, and my wife is no 
more a slim maid, but a comely woman. The years have 
been years of peace and some measure of prosperity. Here 
in Tweeddale life runs easily and calm. Our little country 
matters are all the care we know, and from the greater 
world beyond there comes only chance rumours of change 
and vexation. Yet the time has not been idle, for I have 


314 


JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

busied myself much with study and the care of the land. 
Many have sought to draw me out to politics and statecraft, 
but I have ever resisted them, for after all what are these 
things of such importance that for them a man should 
barter his leisure and peace of mind ? So I have even 
stayed fast in this pleasant dale, and let the bustle and 
clamour go on without my aid. 

It is true that more than once I have made journeys even 
across the water, and many times to London, on matters 
of private concern. It was during one of these visits to 
Flanders that I first learned the importance of planting 
wood on land, and resolved to make trial on my own estate. 
Accordingly I set about planting on Barns, and now have 
clothed some of the barer spaces of the hills with most 
flourishing plantations of young trees, drawn in great part 
from the woods of Dawyck. I can never hope to reap the 
benefit of them myself, but haply my grandchildren will 
yet bless me, when they find covert and shade where before 
was only a barren hillside. 

Also in Tweed I have made two caulds, both for the sake 
of the fish and to draw off streams to water the meadows. 
In the wide reaches of water in Stobo Haughs I have cut 
down much of the encumbering brushwood and thus laid 
the places open for fishing with the rod. Also with much 
labour I have made some little progress in clearing the chan¬ 
nel of the river in places where it is foully overlaid with 
green weed. The result, I am pleased to think, has been 
good, and the fish thrive and multiply. At any rate, I can 
now make baskets that beforetime were counted impossible. 
My crowning triumph befell me two years ago in a wet, 
boisterous April, when, fishing with a minnow in the pool 
above Barns, I landed a trout of full six pound weight. 

The land, which had fallen into neglect in my father’s 
time and my own youth, I did my utmost to restore, and 
now I have the delight of seeing around me many smiling 
fields and pleasant dwellings. In the house of Bams itself 
I have effected many changes, for it had aforetime been 
liker a border keep than an orderly dwelling. But now, what 


THE END OF ALL THINGS 


315 

with many works of art and things of interest gathered 
from my travels abroad, and, above all, through the dainty 
fingers of my wife, the place has grown gay and well- 
adorned, so that were any of its masters of old time to 
revisit it they would scarce know it for theirs. 

But the work which throughout these years has lain most 
near to my heart has been the studies which I have already 
spoken of. The fruit of them, to be sure, is less than the 
labour, but still I have not been idle. I have already in 
this tale told of my exposition of the philosophy of the 
Frenchman Descartes, with my own additions, and my 
writings on the philosophy of the Greeks, and especially of 
the Neo-Platonists—both of which I trust to give to the 
world at an early time. As this story of my life will never 
be published, it is no breach of modesty here to counsel all, 
and especially those of my own family, who may see it, to 
give their attention to my philosophical treatises. For 
though I do not pretend to have any deep learning or extra¬ 
ordinary subtlety in the matter, it has yet been my good 
fate, as I apprehend it, to notice many things which have 
escaped the eyes of others. Also I think that my mind, 
since it has ever been clear from sedentary humours and the 
blunders which come from mere knowledge of books, may 
have had in many matters a juster view and a clearer 
insight. 

Of my own folk I have little to tell. Tam Todd has long 
since gone the way of all the earth, and lies in Lyne Kirk- 
yard with a flat stone above him. New faces are in Bams 
and Dawyck, and there scarce remains one of the old serv¬ 
ing-men who aided me in my time of misfortune. Also 
many things have changed in all the countryside, and they 
from whom I used to hear tales as a boy are now no more 
on the earth. In Peebles there are many new things, and 
mosses are drained and moors measured out, till the whole 
land wears a trimmer look. But with us all is still the 
same, for I have no fancy for change in that which I loved 
long ago, and would fain still keep the remembrance. Sav¬ 
ing that I have planted the hillsides, I have let the moors 


316 JOHN BURNET OF BARNS 

and marshes be, and to-day the wild-duck and snipe are as 
thick on my land as of old. 

As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the braggadocio 
and folly of youth. God send I may not have also out¬ 
grown its cheerfulness and spirit! For certain I am a 
graver man and less wont to set my delight in trifles. Of 
old I was the slave of little things—weather, scene, com¬ 
pany ; but advancing age has brought with it more of 
sufficiency unto myself. The ringing of sword and bridle 
has less charm, since it is the reward of years that a man 
gets more to the core of a matter and has less care for exter¬ 
nals. Yet I can still feel the impulses of high passion, the 
glory of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial 
tale. Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the 
land. For though peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is 
a traitor’s peace at the best, and more horrific than war. 
Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in high places, and 
it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not ousted by a foul 
desire of gain. It is not for me to say. I have no love for 
king or parliament, though much for my country. I am no 
hot-headed king’s man ; nay, I never was ; but when they 
who rely upon us are sold for a price, when oaths are broken 
and honour driven away, I am something less of one than 
before. It may be that the old kings were better, who 
ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled ill. But, 
indeed, I can say little ; here in this valley of Tweed a man 
hears of such things only as one hears the roar of a stormy 
sea from a green inland vale. 

As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old library 
at Barns, looking forth of the narrow window over the sea 
of landscape. The afternoon is just drawing to evening, 
the evening of a hot August day, which is scarce less glori¬ 
ous than noon. From the meadow come the tinkling of 
cattle bells and the gentle rise and fall of the stream. Else¬ 
where there is no sound, for the summer weather hangs low 
and heavy on the land. Just beyond rise the barrier 
ridges, green and shimmering, and behind all the sombre 
outlines of the great hills. Below in the garden my wife is 


THE END OF ALL THINGS 


317 


plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with the 
little maid, who is but three years old to-day. Within the 
room lie heavy shadows and the mellow scent of old books 
and the faint fragrance of blossoms. 

And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know not 
whether to be glad or sad. All the years of my life stretch 
back till I see as in a glass the pageant of the past. Faint 
regrets come to vex me, but they hardly stay, and, as I 
look and think, I seem to learn the lesson of the years, the 
great precept of time. And deep in all, more clear as the 
hours pass and the wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden 
star of honour, which, if a man follow, though it be through 
quagmire and desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow, ’twill 
bring him at length to a place of peace. 

But these are words of little weight and I am too long 
about my business. Behold how great a tale I have written 
unto you. Take it, and, according to your pleasure, bless 
or ban the narrator. Haply it will help to while away a 
winter’s night, when the doors are barred and the great 
logs crackle, and the snow comes over Caerdon. 

















































































































































































































